


channeling angels in the new age

by HelenhastheHiccups



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mutants, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Blood and Violence, Dark, Dehumanization, Developing Relationship, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Multi, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:55:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 48,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25583212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HelenhastheHiccups/pseuds/HelenhastheHiccups
Summary: “I’m afraid we don’t have any more time to play games, Mr. Bang, you are testing positive for a mutated gene. The World Government reserves the right to hold you here indefinitely. You must be aware that you, as a non-human, are stripped of your rights and identity that you held as a human. Do you accept these terms?"xxxIn a world of smoke and mirrors, where mistrust is the only thing one can trust - 9 boys find each other and, in the process, find themselves. A story of mutual healing and growth, even in spite of past and on-going traumas. Mutant au.
Relationships: Bang Chan/Everyone
Comments: 4
Kudos: 36





	1. the world we faced is so strange

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all!
> 
> This is my first Stray Kids fic and I am very excited for it! I have been planning it for a long time but I was also inspired by the work from cornflake and sehoonies - it's much more lighthearted and I adore it. Please heed my tags. 
> 
> If you have any questions or concerns about the contents within PLEASE reach out and I am more than happy to explain what happens where to avoid anything that could potentially trigger someone. 
> 
> It's dark, and I've been in a dark place while processing actions my country is taking against its people. I have done an extensive amount of human rights research and much of that, sadly, includes needing to understand what has been done in the past in detention centers (for current context). Much of what I write is based in true atrocities that I do NOT condone. 
> 
> The first half, at least, will be dark but it's also a story of survival and mutual growth and self discovery. So if you are interested, please read on - I've done my best to build an engaging world that makes you think and reflect. Lastly I want to use lryics from PUMA by TXT for each chapter because that song also matches this story tonally. The title is from Young and Beautiful by Lana del Rey.
> 
> Enjoy!

**[After]**

The screams from the arena’s audience are nothing compared to the roar of Chan’s pulse in his ears. The strain in his lower back throbs, tension tight from over exertion during the fight, the earlier dodge of his opponent’s attack must’ve exacerbated his previous injury. His hand is warm, the liquid running down his arm as the judge raises his arm skyward. The sea of unrecognizable faces blurs as Chan’s vision swims, their cheers and jeers nothing compared to the dawning horror in his consciousness. 

_How could this be okay?_ He wondered as the blood dripped down from his hand, forcing a grin as the audience’s volume only grows as reality sets in. His arm has been raised so long that the blood falls, splattering across his face, mixing with the tears cascading down his face. The judge - guard? - has his hand firmly on the younger’s neck, pushing down on Chan’s neck and shoulder as he leads him down the steps and through the gate. The victor’s body so bruised, aching, yet feeling so numb he doesn’t even register the barrel of the gun at his back. Chan’s vision tunnels as he stumbles in the concrete hallway, shadows swirling around him before surging up and swallowing him whole as he collapses in on himself, body shaking with sobs. _How could I possibly be okay after this?_

The guard moves the gun again, pushing it harder into him as Chan remains motionless on the floor. All of his little energy is expelled through the force of the body wracking sobs tormenting him. The guard’s voice sounds garbled, muffled as if he was speaking underwater. As the butt of the rifle hits him, Chan doesn’t even feel it as he’s sprawled out on the floor with the barrel pushed into his head.

Distantly, he hears the cries of his brothers, his family, pushing through the other viewers on the floor. The throng of people on the viewing platform on the floor is too thick, the others continue fighting their way to get to Chan - eyes tearful, concerned, but it’s too late. He knows this. The weapon in the judge’s hand is cocked, the safety clicking off as he barks orders that fall on deaf ears. From his position on the floor, Chan manages a glance upward, locking eyes with the youngest of their group. Jeongin has managed to gain the lead, nose bleeding with growing fear evident in his eyes, mouth opening in a scream as the gun fires.

**[Before]**

“If you could focus, please, Mr. Bang?” The sound of the woman's nasally voice is almost as grating as manicured nails tapping on the table in front of Chan. The harsh lights make the white walls even brighter, reminiscent of the Heavenly gates. If he concentrates, though, Chan can almost detect previous stains that might’ve decorated those walls given the treatment of patients at the Facility. As his temple pulses, a dull ache, a ghost of a smile flickers across his face. Before he has the chance to focus, his chin is grabbed roughly, nails cutting into his jaw and cheeks as the woman forcefully jerks his head forward. 

“Once again,” she says coolly, “Your mother expressed her concern for you, expressing fears of psychotic visions, the inability to tell your delusions from reality, lashing out at peers, and being a danger to both yourself and others.” 

Chan smiles blandly at the woman, reclining in the metal chair,“Well that’s lovely for her, then, but I’m not experiencing anything of the sort. I’m not experiencing any sort of visions, but I appreciate your concern. I also haven’t kept in touch with my mother in a few years since I came out to her, so any of the information that she gives you is probably skewed by the fact she thinks I’m Satan incarnate.” 

The woman hums, running another finger along Chan’s chin, digging into the flesh enough to serve as an implicit warning. The thought sends a chill down the young man’s spine, a small bead of sweat sliding down his forehead. Yet all of his information was true - after coming out to his mother she had cut contact, nor was he experiencing any psychotic visions. He could tell what was reality and what wasn’t, but that didn’t matter to the Facility. 

“Our blood samples indicate something very interesting about you, Mr. Bang,” says the woman, leaning away from the man strapped to the chair. “Your DNA is testing positive for the presence of a very interesting mutated gene, do you know what one and what this means?”

“KITLG and I’m actually a natural blond?” asks Chan cheerfully, watching as the woman’s lip curls in frustration. _Bingo_. 

She licks her lips as he darts forward, grabbing Chan by the hair and saying, “It means that you are a mutant. That you are less than human, that you are no better than the scum beneath my shoe. However, you, Mr. Bang, are a mutant that the World Government has a lot of interest in, given the information you have that should be impossible to retrieve.”

“Illegally downloaded music. You’ve got me there.” Agony erupts in his head, a hot localized fire as his head makes contact with the desk once more. Chan hisses, biting back a cry of pain as the woman releases her grip on his hair, forcefully pushing him back in the chair. Still it allowed him to see the ID badge clipped to the belt of her pants - it wasn’t hers, but Chan still filed it away for future memory. 

“I’m afraid we don’t have any more time to play games, Mr. Bang, you are testing positive for an encoding mutated gene. The World Government reserves the right to hold you here indefinitely until you demonstrate that you are not in possession of abilities that threaten our society. Even so, you must be aware that you, as a non-human, are stripped of your rights and identity that you held as a human. Do you accept these terms, BC239710?”

“Do I have a choice?” quips Chan as he is pulled up by the arms by two other guards, dragged into the other room. He makes a note to remember that woman’s face, if nothing more than to remember the last person using his name and the first using his prisoner’s code. 

  
xxx  
  


The first few weeks of anyone’s stay at the Facility is called Quarantine. Its purpose is not to eradicate disease within the facility, but to single out those who rush ahead in an escape attempt. At two and a half weeks, hearing occasional newcomers screaming and rampaging through the hallways, Chan is no stranger to what becomes of the unsuccessful attempts. No one escapes the basement and if anyone had, they had not lived to tell the tale. Quarantine is spent in isolation in the most secure part of the Facility, deep in the basement on the West Wing - an essential labyrinth of identical padded rooms and no stairwell access. Keycard access through the central elevator is the only way to access Quarantined prisoners or “patients” as the faculty likes to label the inmates. 

Not that would stop some mutants, but putting one's powers on display, exerting all of their energy in a failed escape plan seems pointless to Chan. Not that he had any offensive powers that would aid in his escape, but from what he can recall when guided down the hallway for the first time - blindfolded and secure in handcuffs - he was sure that any escape attempt of his from Quarantine would be short-lived. So he bided his time.

It takes a lot of effort to have noise make it through the padded walls in Quarantine, but somehow the sickening sound of bones breaking, the _thwapthwapTHWAP_ of the guard’s batons - or guns? - and the screams, the _screams_ of the other prisoners manage to reach Chan’s eardrums effortlessly. Even at night the noises don’t stop, the screams and sobs of other inmates, not to mention the constant abuse at the hands of the guards. The banging on the doors at night, cutting down sleep, tormenting Chan’s neighbors - for supposedly being in isolation, it was strange that the guards didn’t treat it as such. It was the guards’ playground and the inmates - and their rapidly deteriorating sanity - were just the medium of choice.

Chan was usually left to his own devices when the guards realized he wasn’t one to be easily riled, that the isolation was perhaps the best torture for him - not for their lack of trying. Yet as the days turned to weeks, nearing a month, he found himself startling at the slightest of sounds, the strain of isolation and mental torture taking its toll. His cell was rarely lit and with the flap down over the slot for food, the noises were the only indication he wasn’t entirely isolated. To amend the walls closing in and ignore the creeping paranoia, to remind himself he isn’t alone, he allowed himself to use his powers.

Leaning on the wall, exhaling slowly and letting himself fall starts becoming second nature. The resulting throbbing in his temple from over exertion nothing more than a gentle reminder that he was alive, that his powers were real, that even if the torture drove him mad, he was not insane at the start. Falling into a premonition could best be described as jumping out of an airplane from an unimaginable height, diving into the white clouds below and watching the ground below begin to take shape. The only difference being that Chan has little to no control where he falls, even concentrating on a particular person doesn’t guarantee any helpful information. 

Many forced premonitions are just small snapshots from strangers’ lives: a son in Thailand who forgot his mother’s birthday (well, Chan doesn’t speak Thai, but the context clues help), a mother holding her newborn daughter for the first time, a woman finding out that her cancer has returned, a man buying a winning lottery ticket on a whim, eating grapes at midnight with family on New Year’s - so many moments that Chan was privy to, of both good and bad. 

He could, now and then, recall things that were relevant to his daily life, but more often than not those visions were something obscure or unhelpful. The last one he can remember was that he would forget socks on a day he had a doctor’s appointment. Chan, since coming into his powers, rarely went to the hospital but still dutifully packed spare socks in his backpack for the eventuality. As it turned out, he had needed the socks a few days prior to buy some newer tennis shoes and lo and behold when he caught a nasty stomach flu - making his way to the hospital, delirious and hazy, he had, in fact, forgotten his socks. 

Longer premonitions are the ones he does not induce himself, ones that led to him convulsing on the floor in his lecture hall - the one that exposed him when the medics came, when the hospital drew blood, when the loose-lipped nurse made a phone call they shouldn’t have. Those tend to focus on certain people, ones that Chan knows he has to help. There’s been a total of 8 different people in his longer episodes, visions that Chan isn’t sure he could even properly articulate; the most recent was horrifying. A boy strapped down on a metal table, writhing against his bindings, screaming as charge after charge was let loose; he lost consciousness a few times, but was slapped into awareness and made to pace about the room a few times before quickly being forced back down onto the table. Again and again the ritual had started and Chan, unable to do anything but watch, had still tried to cradle the younger man’s head and whisper sweet nothings to try and keep the victim distracted from the endless torture. Sometimes, if Chan concentrated hard enough, he could almost imagine that the desperate gaze had been in fact locked on him, that the nods were nods rather than spasms from the constant onslaught of voltage. For all the misery that Chan witnessed, it gave him the resolve to follow the guards to the Facility, determined to find the man from his vision and make sure that they would get out together.

Well, somehow. At the very least, Chan wants to be someone the other could lean on. The vision had been the culmination of the mounting severity in treatment of the other 8 other men he saw repeatedly in his visions, somehow implicitly knowing that it was all connected to the Facility. Of course, regardless of his own ambition, Chan couldn’t have escaped when guards came to collect him at the hospital. 

Much to no one’s surprise, the rest of the Facility was not much of an improvement in comparison to Quarantine. When the door opens and Chan staggers to his feet, the blindfold is immediately replaced over his eyes and his hands and feet bound by heavy metal shackles. He jingles miserably down the hall, weeks of minimal physical exercise catching up to him as he struggled to keep pace with the heavy weight of the shackles. He follows silently in between armed guards who, coincidentally, are chatting and laughing with one another paying no mind to Chan, even as the gun continues to press into his lower back.

The metal door slides open with a squeal of protest from the hinges, startling the only other occupant of the room. He dives out of his bed, standing at attention with his eyes fixed firmly on the floor. His face is hidden by the mop of hair hanging in front of his face, covering his eyes as Chan is pushed into the room.

“ BC239710, this is your new room. HJ200009, make sure he is aware of the rules.”

The other nods once, head lolling forward as if the weight was too great to support. The grating screech of the cell door sounded once more and the guards laughed about whether or not Choonhee from 5th Block would go out on a date with one of their friends. Chan’s gut roils as he breathes slowly, exhaling in measured, counted breaths so as to not lose his temper and scare his new roommate. 

While Chan calms down, his roommate’s gaze flit up to examine his face before flying back down to the floor. He licks his dry, chapped lips, backing up into the bunk bed and climbing back onto the top bunk where he had been prior to the guard’s intrusion. He didn’t want to look at the newcomer - he either wasn’t real or was another ploy from the Facility to break him. And, shamefully, he was loathe to admit that it was working, that when his torture adled brain conjured a man trying so hard to keep him calm, he thought that he had found something that was his. But now the man is here, in his room, and it can’t be anything but a trap.

The room was built for four, but only held two occupants. It had been that way for quite some time, a small curse of the room as a remnant of the arena system. The walls were stone cracked and aged from previous occupants of the room. There were two imprints almost the size of fists that led to cracks spreading like lightning up toward the ceiling of the room. The bed frames are a thin metal with thin mattresses thrown haphazardly on top of them, each one has a sheet and, honestly, after a month in a padded cell it is still better than Chan was expecting.

The other man points at the other bunk bed across the room and, shrugging, Chan places his spare uniform on the top before heaving himself up onto the frame to sit facing the other. He squints a bit, noting how the other hides his face a little further, but can tell he has larger cheeks and sharp, intelligent - but mistrustful - eyes. 

“My name is Chan,” whispers Chan quietly, keeping an eye out for the guards who might come and disrupt any potential conversation. The other sits up warily, staring at the wall before glancing at the other with a slight turn of his head, looking at Chan from little more than a leftward glance. Still even that was more than enough for the wind to get knocked out of the older, his chest feeling tight as if the glance had been a forceful punch. Even with the face calm, dimly lit compared to the bright flood lights of the torture chamber, Chan had spent ages repeating the sequence in his mind while trapped in Quarantine. Before he could even realize he spoke, the words tumbled out of his mouth unbidden. “It’s _you_.” 

The other’s face pinches in discomfort, a visceral flinch rattling his body as he leaned away from Chan. His eyes dart around, flitting from Chan to the wall, doing his best to avoid eye contact while drawing in on himself. The dark circles under his eyes only punctuate the fear present within them, but still there remains a small flame of hope growing in the other’s irises. Still leading with such a cryptic statement was not an ideal way to begin a conversation regarding the complexities of Chan’s own abilities. The other shakes his head, still scooting backward until he was plastered against the farthest wall of the cramped cell. “I don’t - no, I’m not.”

He pauses for a moment before squaring his shoulders, looking upward to meet Chan’s eyes, “I don’t know who you are, and I don’t want to know who you are. You’re new here? That’s how it works.” 

Chan falters, features crestfallen as he leans back against the wall across from the other. “I guess so, but, well, it’s hard to explain. I just - my powers - I don’t meet anyone who I’ve come across while using them. Could I have your name, at least?”

The fluorescent lights in the hallway flicker before bathing the rooms in darkness, Chan having been brought up to the room long past dinner. The other begins shoving at his lumpy excuse of a pillow, adjusting his things as he settles back down to rest, clearly not going to engage the other in further conversation. 

Sleep is a torture all its own. Here the screams and moans seem even louder than they had in Quarantine, even if the guard rotation seems less frequent than in the deafening silence of Chan’s own cell. The bed is hard, sharp metal poking at him from all angles, but Chan is no stranger to a sleepless night. Quietly whispering his nightly mantra of facts and affirmations helps ground him, reminding himself that he’s a person in spite of everything that the Facility is doing to deter that thought. After what seemed like hours tossing and turning for a while, hoping that the other had fallen asleep, Chan murmurs, “My name is Bang Chan, and I am twenty three. I grew up in Sydney, Australia, I am human. I am doing my best and that is enough. I am enough. My name is Bang Chan and I am twenty three. I grew -”

With the newcomer, it was a no-brainer that the mutant was not going to get any sleep. He can’t trust the other one, his kind facade be damned. Still, it was strange hearing the other whisper to himself the basic truths that he himself had once held so dear, before his power began pushing other thoughts and compulsions on him, before the torture and experimentation began in earnest. A ghost of a whisper sounds in his ear, an insidious voice reminding him that no one had used his name in years, that lesser beings like him don’t have names. Still...he had to have a name, right? A small nagging memory rises unbidden to the forefront of his mind, a small light in the darkness that had long since taken root there. He blanches, eyes flicking to Chan momentarily, continuing to listen to the small paragraph again and again. When it goes quiet, after no less than five verses, the mutant exhales slowly before saying quietly, “Jisung. My name was - is - Han Jisung.”

It’s quiet as Chan turns his head to lock eyes with the other, responding, “Thank you for telling me. I’m sure it’s not easy.”

  
xxx

“I...don’t know how old I am,” says Jisung quietly into the darkness a few weeks later. It’s easier this way, to admit the humiliating fact to the ceiling than have to see Chan’s face - would there be pity? Would he roll his eyes and think, inwardly, that he wouldn’t come so close to losing himself as Jisung? It had taken everything to recall that yes, Jisung did have a name - it had taken even longer for him to start responding to the name when Chan used it. It takes more to remember echoes of a laugh and smile, bright humor and a drive to succeed. Still, he tells his truth shortly after Chan has finished his own affirmations and self-reminders of his own humanity. “I was taken in...2015? That seems right.”

Chan exhales slowly, wetting his lips before responding, “It’s 2020 now.”

Jisung is quiet, save for his struggling breathing. Still it takes Chan longer than he’d like to admit to realize that Jisung’s rattling breaths aren’t from where the guards had kicked him in the ribs yesterday morning but rather a losing battle in suppressing his tears. Jisung bites his lip, ignoring the taste of iron from the blood swelling between his teeth.

There are personal things that Jisung is slowly, ever so slowly beginning to recollect. Snippets of his previous life bubble randomly up in his mind, his interests of a life that seemed so detached from his current suffering. Chan is a grounding presence in this path of self rediscovery, someone who would hold Jisung close at night when the voices would creep in, growing louder without any control by the telepath. His personality a perennial flower beginning to bloom once more - a few small peals of laughter and humor that promise a lively personality, even in spite of the shadows present in his mind. Chan’s hands are cool as he continues running his fingers through the younger’s hair, quietly whispering the few facts the other could recall. _Your name is Han Jisung, your favorite color was red, you love cheesecake…_ It is all superficial information but it is the most that Jisung remembers about himself in years, fearful of how close he had come to surrendering completely to the darkness of the Facility. 

“Thank you for telling me,” he replies wetly. 

  
xxx  
  


“I think I drove my last few roommates mad,” confesses Jisung quietly as they eat their meals in relative peace. He flinches slightly, wincing as he sets down his chopsticks, holding his head tightly for a moment as the shouts and footsteps grow louder in volume. He breathes unsteadily, hands shaking as the echoes from other inmates’ minds invade his own, their fear overpowering what little mental privacy Jisung had established. Chan stands, poking a curious head outside of the door, watching as guards storm down the hallway in droves, guns and batons blazing as they go to apprehend the out of line inmate. Even from the next section over, Chan thinks if he strains his ears he can hear the other prisoner’s screams of pain, having heard similar sounds for the last ten minutes upon receiving the notice meals would be taken in cells that night. The urgency from the guards could almost convince an onlooker that, truely, the inmate was out of line - yet the resulting torment would always reveal the truth. Returning to his place on the dirty floor across from the other boy, Chan holds his bread in his hands. He can barely stomach it, forcing each bit of bread down his throat regardless, focused on not letting the meager ration go to waste. 

“I don’t doubt it, with your sense of humor, Jisung,” says Chan lightly, probing the other for his reaction. Jisung laughs lightly, but bites back the retort on the edge of his tongue as he tears off part of his own bread, nibbling on it pensively. Realistically, the mental projects Jisung was capable of - both conscious and unconscious - would be enough for Chan to understand how another in a fragile state would not be able to also handle the other’s rapid, fluid thoughts. Much less the thoughts bleeding over from other people within the facility. Sometimes deflecting with humor was easier than treating the younger as if he was made of glass, even if it left a less than sour taste in the older man’s mouth. A reassurance of Jisung’s own humanity, of his own ability to laugh and love sometimes means the difference of setbacks in his progress.

“I just...I can’t control it very well.” Jisung is, for lack of better word, an open door. He knows this from the day his powers manifested in class - the same day that he was taken to the Facility. He has never had a chance to learn to filter out the thoughts of others in a low stress environment - perhaps as the Facility had always intended. Even to this day, the telepath broadcasts all of his own thoughts (on particularly bad days sometimes those of others) while unable to shield himself from the onslaught of emotion, of the loud suffering being broadcasted from the other inmates. In large crowds and groups, it is especially taxing; hence the reason he was taken, crying and overstimulated, led from his school into the white van where he was blindfolded and taken to the Facility. His last memories of sunlight on his face are through a blindfold, face wet from his tears, body shaking from all of the thoughts bombarding him so much that, in a sense, that moment in time is where he began losing himself. 

Chan sets his bread down, scooting a little closer to Jisung, saying, “I can’t control my own powers very well either, but I promise you I am not going anywhere and I am not giving up on you. I want to help you in any way that I can.”

The older boy had taken a few sparring rounds with the guards, protecting Jisung to the best of his ability even in spite of his exhaustion from his own sessions in the North Wing. Even when he collapses due to his powers, eyes unseeing the present reality, while his body stays unmoving and vulnerable to torment from others, Chan still manages to keep pushing forward. Somehow, even as tired as the older body is, in spite of the dark circles gracing his features and overgrown roots of his hair, his spirit and determination seem unbreakable to Jisung. As a veteran of the Facility of five years, he knows inwardly that this will not last, but the possibility is enough for Jisung to start feeling foolish hope bloom in his heart.

“Chan,” says Jisung quietly, “When you came...I didn’t...you mentioned that you saw me? I don’t...What are your powers?”

It’s been months, but trust grows slowly in a place like the Facility. Much more so when Jisung unwittingly has his heart on his sleeve a majority of the time, connection builds an easier pathway to dip into other’s minds, so he claims. His bold leap of faith led to a long conversation between the telepath and the psychic, pushing their own knowledge of their powers to the limit. It was a sweet, languid atmosphere and was almost enough to forget the war raging outside of their cell door. 

“That’s not how premonition works, though,” says Jisung the next day, gritting his teeth as he readjusts the rake in his hands. They’re in the Gymnasium today, both hunched over doing the menial work that the guards had planned for their Section of the Facility. Sweat has plastered both boys’ bangs to their forehead as they rake through the dirt of the Gymnasium to make room for the planks of wood for a new platform. If a person had ever grown up in total darkness without ever having experienced the outdoors or sunlight, the Gymnasium might be a good approximation of what that person would imagine. It’s a dome filled with dirt and false light to give the illusion of the outdoors, but the air is stale and ripe with death. “I saw you, I _know_ I did.”

“Well, maybe it was your present, but my future?” asks Chan blithely, keeping the tone light as another guard passes behind the duo. It takes a minute for Jisung to respond, racking his brain for the translation of what Chan replied in English as to avoid the eavesdropping from Guard Kwon. This guard, in particular, although prone to aggression was not the most dangerous of guards - many of those who prowled the Gymnasium were not the largest threats in the Facility. They were, more than anything, hired muscle and bullies. If Jisung works on his English and they both keep their conversations airy and cheerful, the personnel wouldn’t have any reason to suspect them. Many older prisoners babbled to each other in vaguely nonsensical languages as weeks, months, years without social contact unravels their sense of communication.

Chan pauses in his motion to roll out his shoulder, wincing at the pain from an encounter with a guard the previous week exacerbated by the repetitive motion of digging and raking the soil. He glances upward as Jisung meets his eyes and shakes his head negatively in response. Kwon is still lingering, tapping his baton against his hand as he notices that Chan has ceased working. 

“Meeting isn’t possible in premonition,” says Jisung, wiping the sweat off of his forehead with his shirt before resuming his work. “Right? You hadn’t interacted with anyone previously. You said it felt different.”

“No, I guess not, but maybe it’s because you’re a telepath? You read my mind as I looked into your future?” Jisung raises an unimpressed eyebrow at the other before shrugging, steadying himself on his rake as a wave of exhaustion washes over him. Another bead of sweat rolls down his forehead as he looks around toward the single entrance of the Gymnasium, a few new lines of inmates coming down for their work. He tossed his head once as if to shake off the dizziness and trickle of new voices, before attempting to resume his work. It’s slow going, each movement more taxing than the last as inmates are brought Section by Section into the Gymnasium.

Chan inhales sharply, whispering in Korean to the younger, “They’re early. Something must’ve happened.”

Handing over their tools to the inmate distributing them as guards begin barking orders, Chan steadies Jisung as best as he can. The younger leans heavily on Chan, attempting to focus his powers on the older’s familiar, safe mind rather than be overwhelmed by the swarms of inmates filling the Gymnasium. It must be a demonstration today, then, if so many different Sections are coming down rather than the usual rotation. Jisung’s breath quickens, his grip on Chan tightens momentarily as they are made to stand independently, gazing toward one of the older platforms. 

The guards bring up a man, blindfolded and handcuffed, but still thrashing wildly. He, curiously enough, wears the traditional black jumpsuit as high ranking officers. Chan’s temple throbs and he glances at Jisung, keeping his face forward. The younger doesn’t notice Chan, keeping his head fixed forward with a fraught expression on his face, lips moving almost imperceptibly as he continues staring at the prisoner. 

Time passes slowly while waiting for the faculty to make an announcement or finally finish the spectacle. Rather the collective torture is the struggle of waiting in the humid room, shirts still clinging to sweaty backs, with growing trepidation as minute after minute passes with no change for the faculty. The man in the officer uniform sags wearily in the holds of the other two guards, resignation flooding his features as that woman returns, heels booming on the wooden platform. His head tilts in the direction of her footsteps, but otherwise shows little awareness that the Director has even arrived. Similarly to how she had treated Chan in their first - and only - encounter, she grabs a tight fistful of hair and lifts up his head, putting his features on display for the audience. 

Chan is toward the back of the crowd, utterly exhausted, the throbbing in his temple only growing as the moments pass. He closes his eyes momentarily, swaying on his feet, attempting to will himself to stave off another episode and stay conscious. As Chan struggles, previously too focused on Jisung to pay attention to his own problems, Jisung watches as the woman strides across the stage, pulling off the blindfold. The man, forced on his knees with his arms pinned behind him is forced into a straitjacket - squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. The woman falters before regaining her composure, the sound of the subsequent slap reverberating around the metal walls of the Gymnasium. 

“Your time has run out,” she coos slowly, many audience members straining to hear what she says, “Even you cannot fool everyone here and you, traitor, I’m afraid, are not immune to death.”

Her knife glints in the fluorescent lights of the Gymnasium before striking the man’s cheek as fast as a viper, blooms of red opening that marr the side of his face. His features, Jisung notes idly, are not unattractive with his dark eyes and light brown hair. Opening his eyes, his gaze locks on the exposed eyes of the other man, mouth falling open in a brief moment of recognition before his knees buckle, legs giving way under him. 

The man on stage, who cannot be much different in age from Chan and Jisung, screws his eyes shut once again. And this time, so fearful of the approaching guards ready to punish Chan, yet still so focused on the spectacle of terror, Jisung _sees_. The image he sees is not one that he has created. He’s lost in a blanket of greenery, a forest of lush trees and plants he’s never seen before, vines that begin creeping up his body already having engulfed the Director as the man watches. 

_You shouldn’t be here._ Jisung bites down hard, falling out of the illusion, pushing forward until he sees himself, on the metal table, tears running down his face from one of his earlier long-form sessions. The burn marks on his face and arms from the friction with the bands - not to mention the voltage - are ghastly and he feels sick seeing the other lying limply on the table. A small tube is pushed into the younger’s hand as he is led off the table, Jisung looks at himself in the one-way mirror: seeing the stranger’s face as his own, leaning closer and closer until he slips into another memory. He’s in a dark, cramped room and sweating buckets from the temperature akin to that of an oven. For his minor transgressions he’s been relegated here, to sit in front of an overflowing filing cabinet bursting with information. His muscles ache from the methodical action of placing each file in the incinerator. Burning countless names, faces, identities until only numbers remain. _I have to fix it, I can’t stand this, I have to warn…_ Warn who? Jisung wants to cry out, dig deeper into the other’s mind, but before long he’s already been long since thrown out. 

The thing many people - both humans and mutants alike - don’t understand about mental abilities is how vulnerable it leaves the user. Chan, to his benefit, tries not to collapse when he intentionally uses his power, but premonition is a fickle thing - forcing Chan out of his own body and into an infinite river of possibilities. Although present physically, he is essentially asleep in the current reality. His eyes, milky and unseeing when using his powers, are a dead giveaway to those who pay attention to the duo - leaving Jisung open to aggressors with Chan to protect as well. Jisung, on the other hand, can’t be in large crowds for long, unable to shield himself from their anxious, racing thoughts. He can’t be in another’s mind for long for fear of getting lost in the endless maze of memories and experiences. Still aside from the drawbacks, mental power users still have a rare sense of kinship and an almost natural resistance to one another’s abilities.

The illusion? Attack? Jisung isn’t sure what it is that the other mutant is doing, but it has the woman hesitating once more, no more than a fraction of a second. His own hand twitches, raising toward his temple as he locks eyes with a pleading gaze a few hundred meters away and nods once in response. A strange sense of calm washes over the man on stage as Jisung places his fingers at his temple, almost casually brushing the side of his face. The illusion expands outward, pushing forward amplifying itself through Jisung.

He’s never done this before, never even sought this level of control and demonstration of his own telepathic abilities, but in spite of the short lived effects it serves its purpose well. The other man, noticing the incapacitation of the arena through the use of his own allusion shrugs off the guards, pushing his shoulders to free himself, the guards falling aside like ragdolls.

Pain, in particular, broadcasts well. That much is clear from the effects of the mutant’s powers as he jumps off the podium, setting off at a run with Jisung following as best as he can while helping a barely-conscious Chan along. He - _Minho_ , chimes the other’s inner voice - motions hurriedly at the duo ambling along as the occupants of the Gymnasium begin to blink away the haze of the mental illusion. Still, many prisoners are too afraid to move and Jisung’s own (inadvertent) revenge on the guards bought them enough time. Their footsteps hit the linoleum floor hard, echoing in the near-empty hallways as they duck into a nearby dressing room, hurriedly stripping Minho of his straitjacket and uniform as the alarms begin blaring and prisoners are being led into their cells.

Jisung blinks, shivering as he holds his dirty clothes in his hand as he re-registers the unmistakable black jumpsuit and collar of the higher ranking officer’s uniform. Minho’s insignia - on the left thigh - is a marker for the endless suffering that he and Chan have been receiving for months. Jisung wonders if he’s losing his own mind helping someone who bore the marks of his torturers, those who had made his life hell for the past five years. His hands tremble as he hands over his only set of clothes to the other man, recoiling noticeably as he takes the black jumpsuit in his own. It burns like fire on his skin, a sheep in a wolf’s clothing, desperately trying to act the part and not get caught. Minho dresses quickly, helping Chan stand upright and gesturing for Jisung to lead the way to his cell. 

_How do I know I can trust you?_ wonders Jisung as he walks behind Chan and Minho, pushing at them lightly with the baton Minho had swiped off another guard. Chan and Minho are following slowly with their arms above their heads, the former of the two finally lucid after another episode and not well filled in on the situation. Minho glances back every now and then, eyes wild with worry as they continue weaving their way down the halls. Jisung could know another’s mind inside and out but still be surprised when they decide to turn on him, this Minho - an officer - shouldn’t be trusted. _An officer who was about to be executed_ , retorts his consciousness, _an officer who recognized you, the one who gave you the salve two years ago_. 

It didn’t mean he didn’t serve a corrupt system. Jisung frankly didn’t care if the man turned out to be a hero or the biggest of villains, he was still someone who willingly let others be tortured and die at the hands of his own inaction and participation in the operations of the Facility. But Jisung wasn’t going to let himself be lost again and this man didn’t deserve to die at the hands of the Director - either way he had acted without thinking and had to pay the consequences. That meant their fates were now entwined for the time being. 

“You!” calls a harsh, grating voice. Jisung freezes, turning slowly to meet the eyes of the guard. 

“Yes?” he calls, hoping that his face exudes calm and confidence rather than the sick worry he feels. Minho stills, keeping his eyes covered with his fringe and keeps Chan held back with a hand, preventing the other from getting involved. 

“All officers were called to the meeting with the Director. You should be heading there now,” chides the guard urgently. Jisung knows that the Director is not one to be kept waiting, but he also knows that this is more than likely a trap. He nods understandingly regardless, gesturing casually to his comrades behind him.

“I know, I was told by one of my colleagues when I realized my radio ran out of charge. I was on my way there when my colleague was radioed to take these two to North Wing for their sessions, I volunteered to take them as it’s on my way.”

The other frowns deeply, his mustache turning down as he surveys Chan and Minho. It’s not a lie - Jisung usually has a session after Gymnasium, when he’s already fidgety and over-stimulated. Chan’s schedule, similarly, followed suit - after hours of labor he was more prone to falling prey to heavier, unplanned episodes. Minho meets his glance, _It’s not enough._

Honestly, Jisung could have told him that, but Minho reading the other’s body language was more than enough confirmation. He squares his shoulders, puts on the nastiest face that he can muster and says, “Are you doubting me? You know that I can turn you into your own commanding officer for not following your orders, where is your squad and Section that you are assigned to monitor?”

The other splutters, face flushing, as he protests, “I already finished that! Besides, you didn’t even use their identification numbers!”

“BC239710 and HJ200009 are under my jurisdiction for the time being, I don’t need your opinion on how I should do my job. If you think that the lockdown means that patients don’t need to be monitored you are sorely mistaken, if word gets out about this we could have a full scale mutiny on our hands.” The names leave a sour taste in his mouth, the acting even more so, but from the echoes of quiet awe and shock from Chan and Minho are more than enough to keep Jisung standing firm. 

The other nods, stalking away after delivering a swift kick to Chan’s shin, sending the other toppling. After helping Chan back up, they make it to their cell without incident, forcing the door open and slipping inside undetected. Jisung quickly begins shedding the black clothes, stuffing them in the small slit he had cut into the mattress, resolving to discard them properly at a later date. Minho sits on a bottom bunk warily, top half of the prisoner’s uniform off as he sits in his plain white undershirt - high quality for an inmate, but not entirely unheard of. 

Chan freezes, turning toward Minho, tossing Jisung his spare uniform as he says, “Four guards will come, Jisung-ah. They suspect that he isn’t an inmate...they want to use our sessions to find out the truth.”

“Was that what - ?” Jisung doesn’t get the chance to finish as the guards rap on the door of the cell, but catches Chan’s quick nod in response as he steels himself. That was the episode that Chan had experienced in the Gymnasium - a prediction of his own torture that left him incapacitated for almost 15 minutes triggered by the sight of Minho on the punishment and execution platform. 

“You three!” The three mutants stand at attention, Jisung’s hand twitching back to his temple as if to brush a stray hair out of his eyes. Jisung hopes its enough to withstand the torture and questioning, that he did a solid job of convincing himself and Chan of how long the other inmate had been there. The guard leans forward, pulling Minho forward by his collar, lifting him off his feet as he growls, “Who is this? How long has he been here?”

“Two weeks, sir,” responds Chan, “LM229810 is his identification.” 

Jisung concentrates a little harder, murmuring, “They system’s been slow, identification numbers are slower to update, these days, overcrowding is starting to become common as well. It’s normal to have three to a cell.” 

The furrow in the guard’s brow deepens as he nods in agreement to Jisung’s murmured statement. He sets a weak kneed Minho back on the ground, replying, “Yes, that sounds right. You still have to get checked out, go to your sessions.”

The three are led down the hallway, Chan hissing, “What are we going to do when they find out he isn’t in the system?”

Jisung shakes his head helplessly in reply, lethargy starting to set in as his adrenaline subsides. His limbs feel heavy, filled with cement; he dreads the morning after his session, he can’t imagine he’ll be in shape to get up and out of his lofted bed if he already feels this terrible. The guards force them down on the bench in the Cooler - the waiting room before their time in the individual, specialized rooms in the North Wing. 

“They won’t find out,” Minho replies through gritted teeth. The shackles are already chafing his wrists, but he pulls against them anyway, straining to whisper the next piece of information to the other two boys. The ones who had already risked everything to help him when, by all means, they should’ve left him there. “The system’s database has been dysfunctional for weeks, not that anyone bothered checking. The individual files are being burned as well.”

“So we’re all ghosts,” says Chan quietly. “We disappeared and now they’ll make sure we stay that way.”

  
xxx

  
The screams from the nearby rooms in the North Wing are almost enough for the young man to want to get back in the water where the sound is muffled. But he’s not quite that desperate yet, he reasons with himself, nothing in this world would convince him to willingly lower himself back into the tank. Except, perhaps, a fast death. 

“Don’t you think so, Hyunjin-ah?” asks the woman, her hair in her usual bun with her intern’s badge pinned to her belt. The young man refuses to look up from a particularly interesting tile, gaze firmly planted on the ground, wincing as the screams only increase in volume. It’s a sick form of torture that the only time Hyunjin is raised from the depths below is when the Facility wants to try and siphon his powers to use against the man in the room behind him, the one on the table. The dull throbbing in his arms only worsens as he readjusts to keep himself elevated, suspended from chains at his arms and legs, chains that attempt to force him onto his stomach above the tank. His hair, longer than he’s ever had it, hangs limply in front of his eyes, greasy, damp, and unkempt which only adds to his personal misery - not to mention the horrible soundtrack of projected _painpainhelpmepleasepainpain_ from the occupant of the nearby room in this area of the Facility. The inmate was the same age as he was, only a few months between them, but in the six months that Hyunjin had been in the Facility he knew that internal voice as well as he knew his own. Knew that his own ability to endure suffering could come at the cost of not allowing further harm to the other man - even if the Facility would always find a new generator.

It would be easier, he thinks inwardly, if the Facility would let his power consume him and find another way to power their more aggressive torture devices. If they would let the electrical discharge from the lightning run through his veins finally, finally escape rather than keeping him barely alive. He bites his lip, ignoring the blood welling under his teeth as he readjusts, sobbing as the nodes on his back continue the painful, prickling sensation as they draw his blood. It amplifies suddenly and Hyunjin screams as the woman hums.

“It’s rude to not respond, Hyunjin-ah.” He has the distinct pleasure of being the only inmate to hear his name, but it doesn't make a difference. This isn't a courtesy, this is an insult.

“Don’t I think what?” mutters Hyunjin bitterly, still avoiding the other’s gaze. He shifts his line of sight from the floor to the tank of water he was hanging above, arms burning with exhaustion from holding himself upright for the conversation. His muscles spasm and Hyunjin plummets downward for a moment, getting tangled in the loose chains, almost inches from the surface of the water. From this angle it is clear to see that the walls of the tank are made of impossibly thick one-way glass, so that he can’t see out but any of the Facility’s faculty can see him. He’s little more than a bug under a microscope as his caretakers come in to adjust his oxygen kindly each day, leaving him gasping for air and struggling as the water fills his lungs. The water near his face swirls, the dread of returning having him break out in a cold sweat even in the humid environment. The woman steps forward, pushing him back and forth, swaying dangerously; Hyunjin’s eyes snap upward as she caresses his hair, lightly pushing his face back in the water as she pulls node after node out of the orifices in his back. His mask and tube beat against his chest in time with his heart as he sways in his efforts to hold himself away from the water, sighing in relief as the woman lets the chains rise up again momentarily.

The surface of the water is speckled with red that has dripped out of where the nodes were attached. At least it’s filled with semi-freshwater, Hyunjin couldn’t imagine the pain that would await him if the tank was filled with saltwater. Not that the small amounts of chlorine helped him heal and avoid unnecessary hurt. 

“Don’t you think that it’s a bargain that your neighbor is so kind to provide you with even more mental stimulation and _purpose_ than you would’ve gotten otherwise?” Her voice is sugar sweet and it hurts Hyunjin to hear, he sags wearily as she taps her foot impatiently, waiting for a reply.

“Of course,” he replies, readjusting his grip and wincing in pain as the blisters on his hands reopen. “Very...admirable...of him.” 

“And good for you, too, Hyunjin-ah.”

The woman paces back and forth, her heels clicking loudly on the linoleum tile of Hyunjin’s private cell in the North Wing of the Facility. He knows that he is one of a handful of lucky prisoners to get such treatment, to live in the specialized rooms - to receive this treatment 24/7. She crosses her arms, smiling smugly as she strides forward, pulling Hyunjin’s mask up, paying to mind to his frantic thrashing and murmured pleas. 

“You were always my biggest failure, Hyunjin-ah.” She pats his face tenderly as she pushes the oxygen tube deeper down his throat, paying no mind to the retching and gagging from the young man hanging from the series of chains. Hyunjin blinks the tears from his eyes, trying to overcome his own gag reflex for his own benefit as the chains begin lowering faster, faster. “You could have been great, but look what you turned out to be instead. As soon as you run out of use to me, know that I won’t hesitate to do away with you.” 

The lights go out as Hyunjin plunges into the dark waters below. 

  
xxx  
  


His hands tremble as he scrubs them in the water, working up a slow lather of suds as he keeps his gaze steady on his shaking appendages. Even the delicate movement of washing his hands hurts, every muscle tense and aching as he continues to stave off the impending attack, an ant trying to fight a tsunami. He grabs the hand towel, methodically drying his hands and doing his best to ignore how his hands are worsening by the second; spots dotting his vision, time ticks by slowly as his blood roars in his ears, more so his veins are a giveaway that something is wrong. Looking down reveals the pulsing, moving electricity thrumming as it searches for an outlet. Hyunjin frowns, squeezing his right hand into a fight fist in a last attempt to defend against the release of his powers. 

A seizing pain launches him forward, gripping the sides of the sink urgently as his fingers tremble and heat up. The crackle of electricity is loud in the quiet bathroom, booms in the empty house - Hyunjin has never been more thankful for an absent parent. Nevertheless, his face reddens in shame as more electricity continues to slip from his control. He won’t let himself be controlled like this, he _won’t_ , he has something to prove to his doubting mother, to her prestigious career in science and higher expectations for her wayward arts-inclined son. It’s simple suppression and regulation; only a few more months and Hyunjin’s body will grow used to the strain of beating back a fearsome electrical current. Then a few more years of pushing himself to enjoy science. So many snide whispers pass by Hyunjin, that he’s come so far based on his own looks and mother’s standing, but it’s not true and whatever they think he has to show them that they're wrong. He is strong, he will be strong - this is just a testament to his own determination, a personal crucible, nothing more than a trial by fire. He _has_ to beat this, _it’s nothing more than a minor setback_ , he reassures himself. Hyunjin ignores the sweat on his face as his body trembles from the exertion of restraining an electrical storm.

The lightning doesn’t hurt him, but when surveying himself in the mirror it is evident that the past few months of suppression are starting to take their toll. His hair has lost its usual volume and luster, skin pallor and thin. He sighs quietly, tilting his head back toward the ceiling light of the bathroom as the pain continues subsiding, a blessed relief if only for a few days. His own appearance is easily fixed with a polite smile and light application of makeup, hair redyed with the color and bleach covering up the loss of luster. The wooden paneling in the bathroom is not so easily repaired, covered in scorch marks webbing outward from where his fingers had desperately clutched the counter top. Perhaps passing it off as intentional wood staining would make a difference, although the amount of scorch marks appearing elsewhere in the house would suggest otherwise.

His phone chimes, alarm beeping to remind him of work. The bathroom can wait, he supposes, one day won’t make much of a difference - his parents use their own separate bathroom regardless. It gives him time to think of a better cover story or a solution, regardless. Relacing his boots, the young man hurries down the steps, flying down the sidewalk to catch his bus on time, desperately trying to ignore the worry rooted deep in his stomach. 

The day is hard. Hyunjin feels like a stranger in his own skin, twitchy and uncomfortable as if a million insects were just below the surface and skittering about his limbs. Throwing himself into a small chair in the break room is a small reprieve from the hateful gazes of those he works with, their mistrustful eyes from both colleagues and clients, and continue burrowing under Hyunjin’s skin. His heart thrums nervously, keeping pace with his anxious, racing thoughts _They know they know they know_ He can’t breathe, gasping for air as he washes his face frantically in the bathroom, drinking water but nothing helps. The atmosphere itself has his neck in a vice grip, so oppressive he thinks a puppet might have more freedom than he does. After that morning, it’s more clear than ever he’s in a career he doesn’t want, an operation he wants no part of that he wants to end but he can’t; his fears weighing heavier in his mind than he ever could have anticipated. 

The empty feeling and crawling unease only escalate as he returns home to find that the house is being cleaned and decorated in preparation for a small gathering. His mother occasionally has associates over for dinner, those higher ranked in society and in favor with the World Government, but Hyunjin has ever met someone so young. Compared to the usual patrons at their dinner parties, a Western-style dining room filled with older men with matching sets of greying hairs and wrinkled faces, this man is a child, hardly more than a few years older than Hyunjin himself. The other occupants of the room pay him little mind as he continues putting food on his plate, perhaps more than is socially acceptable, eating slowly and occasionally averting his eyes to look at something under the table. 

When Hyunjin chances a glance he sees the other biting back a smile, eyes squinting lightly as he lures Kkami, his dog, with another few pieces of salmon. In an endless cycle, Kkami trots away to her resting place across the table under Hyunjin’s chair - if his mother finds out he snuck her into the dining room again he will be crucified - only to be beckoned back with another tempting morsel. As it continues, the young man occasionally tricks her, pulling away the food only to still reward her with pets and other treats.

“So, Lee Know-ssi,” begins his mother, drawing the other’s attention away from Kkami who whines at the loss. “Your superiors here have given you multiple commendations for your work, your planning and analysis of potential is the most thorough we’ve seen yet. Your on-hands work is spectacular as well, everyone here is very impressed with your work. Any tips you could offer your dongsaeng?”

Lee Know (a pseudonym, suspects Hyunjin) sets his chopsticks down and smiles demurely as he replies, “Nothing more than I’m sure might be capable of himself. If he decides to apply himself, that is. The only secret I have is having three cats and eating well. Well, with dancing every few evenings with a local group.”

Lee Know, Hyunjin realizes over the course of the next three dinners the other attends, is not Korea’s next rising actor. He deflects easily and diffuses the tension through his offhand almost nonsensical comments, but Hyunjin can see the rising frustration in his mother’s eyes. There’s something about Lee Know and his brilliance that his superiors swoon over that she wants to pick apart piece by piece. Having been in that position for the majority of his life, Hyunjin does not envy the newcomer. The other evidently knows this as he leaves Hyunjin out to dry for the majority of dinner through light verbal jabs and other small shenanigans to satisfy his own amusement. 

Shenanigans refers to the chaos that tends to follow the eccentric Lee Know. One memorable occasion would be the older flinging the chocolate dessert at Hyunjin, managing a shot skilled enough to land on his face and on his white dress shirt. The disapproving look his mother sends Hyunjin is enough for Lee Know to excuse himself to laugh in the other room, departing with an innocent smile betraying his guilt painted on his face. Another memorable time, even in spite of his well-cut suit, the other man managed to sneak one of his cats into the dinner in his gym bag. The orange head poked out and, even in spite of his eyes wide in shock, the other played it off remarkably well. It did not, however, stop him from bringing the cat into his suit jacket where Hyunjin first noticed it.

The most recent incident, where coincidentally Lee Know was just lost looking for the spare bathroom on the second floor he was directed toward, confirms that Hyunjin’s unease was justified. The other leans against the wall, cracking his knuckles slightly as the blood drains from Hyunjin’s face, he gestures toward the scorch marks casually as one might discuss the weather.

“You should be more careful,” he says plainly. 

“This is a private bathroom, you shouldn’t even be in here,” retorts Hyunjin, two steps away from panicking. _He knows he knows he knows_ “Please leave.”

Lee Know shrugs, “I got lost and was told I could use this one. But please, believe me, you need to be more careful. You think I don’t pay attention? You do a poor job of hiding it.”

Hyunjin pushes the other against the wall, but the older man remains unphased. He raises an unimpressed eyebrow at the other before easily flipping Hyunjin onto his back, stepping on his chest, hissing, “Do you want the rest of the house to hear us?”

“What do you care if everyone else hears, when you want to out me anyway? You work at the Facility, you’ve climbed the ranks faster than anyone else,” taunts Hyunjin, ignoring how the sole of Lee Know’s shoe continues pressing harder into his chest. He moves his shoe to the other’s throat, ignoring how Hyunjin coughs, clawing at his ankles, ignoring how his nails scratch into his leg, the little blood getting caked under his nails. Finally, after what feels like hours passing, the other releases Hyunjin.

“Contrary to what everyone says or what you believe, I have a clear consciousness that I’ve never hurt anyone unlike you. Well...not intentionally, anyway.” He mutters the last part quietly, eyes drifting off to a distant shore that Hyunjin is not privy to view.

Regardless, the younger knows exactly what Lee Know performs in his position at the Facility, the cruel forms of torture he himself devises and supervises. When his loyalty was tested how he displayed his loyalty, according to General Park. Hyunjin snorts but freezes as the footsteps in the hallway begin drawing closer, louder with every step. Lee Know grabs him by the arm, hauling him into the shower, pulling the frosted door. Squinting in suspicion as their silhouettes are clear even in spite of the frosting on the glass. He glances at the other imperceptibly, who narrows his eyes slightly as the lock pops open on the door. As both suspected, the intruder was Hyunjin’s mother. 

There’s a sharp gasp and Hyunjin can’t see behind but it certainly doesn’t sound like his mother. Stammering and apologizes fall from the stranger’s voice, a prominent sound of clothes shuffling and a zipper, followed by a hesitant departure from another person as his mother’s voice begins to sharpen. Even from the relative security of the shower, Hyunjin cannot help the shudder that wracks his body as his mother begins scolding, tone colder and more ominous than the darkest depths of the ocean. He stays cramped against Lee Know in the smaller shower of the bathroom, finding only slight solace in the fact that the other’s pulse seems as elevated as his own.

As the door shuts, his mother’s footsteps retreating Lee Know gingerly pushes open the shower door. There, face red with tear tracks coursing down his face, looking like every emotional protagonist from classic dramas stands another Hyunjin. His clothes are unkempt, shirt half on and pants missing, standing only in his boxers - he has, interestingly, a hickey on his neck. Hyunjin - the real Hyunjin - splutters as the other disappears, Lee Know sagging wearily against the wall where he had stood not fifteen minutes prior. 

“Hope you’re okay with your mom thinking you’re into men,” he says simply.

“ _Uh_ ,” replies Hyunjin intelligently, ignoring how warm his face has become. His eyebrow twitches and he’s certain regardless of how beautiful he might be that the expression on his features is indescribable. 

The other claps a hand on his shoulder, stating, “It’s okay, she probably thinks we’re together or at least sleeping together out of wedlock. I swear I’ll be an honest man and take care of you and provide for our three beautiful cat children. I might tolerate the dog.”

“You - mutant?” In spite of Hyunjin’s difficulties overcoming his shock in order to form full coherent sentences, Lee Know nods. The cards fall into place - the blind eye his mother always seemed to turn to the other. That absolute bastard letting Hyunjin take the fall - even if Hyunjin wondered how other things went unnoticed. And yet, even as his stomach was a knot of fear and frustration, this was the only other mutant he had ever met, at least in favorable circumstances. 

Lee Know clasps Hyunjin’s hands tightly, nodding once as he says, “So you know I’m in a tough spot. But I hope you find solace in the fact that illusions and trickery are what I do best - I’m not letting others get hurt if I can help it. Let Hyung handle this and get yourself away from here. You aren’t as stealthy as you think you are, you’re a liability. She _knows_.” 

Lee Know’s words cut as he turned on his heel, pushing the door open for a moment, hesitating as he waited for the younger’s response. Hyunjin shook his head helplessly, but it was clear that their absence after dinner festivities was going to be noticed sooner or later. Clearly his mother was already suspicious. The other sighed resigned, but didn’t press the issue further. Hyunjin wished that he had listened, as three days later he was being shackled and forced into his private room in the North Wing of the Facility.

  
xxx  
  


The door opens and the lights flicker on. Hyunjin isn’t sure how long he’s been here, less than a month, surely. Time passes differently and if it weren’t for the tube down his throat, mask on his face, and chains on his limbs he might almost be able to delude himself into believing he’s in a sensory deprivation chamber. Minus the weightless sensation of being in saltwater - it’s cold, dark, wet, and close enough. He squints against the harsh light, blinking hard to adjust and see the intruder into his room. 

He wears the black work suits of those high ranked in the Facility, the same utilitarian boots that are issued to each personnel who enter the Facility in all its grisly glory. Still, Hyunjin can’t help the sob that escapes his mouth as his eyes meet the worried ones of none other than Lee Know. The ghost whose name he still doesn’t know, who helps him down from the shackles and holds him close for a few minutes, working steadily to patch up the worst of his wounds the best that he can. Hyunjin is a little taller, but Lee Know still manages to have him cradled in his embrace, whispering quiet apologies against his hair. 

The handle of the door turns, the beginning of the end, and Lee Know is quick to craft an illusion of a battered, bloodied Hyunjin back on the scaffolding watched by a more imposing version of the other mutant. It worries him how Lee Know makes an image so bruised and beaten when he realizes that the other had based this Hyunjin off of the one currently in his arms. The tears slip down his cheeks, but the other claps a hand over his mouth. In comes the woman that Hyunjin dreads seeing most in the world, the Director’s hair swirled back into its uniform bun.

“What are you doing here, Lee Know?” she asks coldly.

“Came to see it for myself. How heroes fall,” quips the fake Lee Know, shifting his weight to the other leg, casually moving out of the Director’s way while crossing his arms over his chest. He exudes a smug confidence and had Hyunjin truly been in the scaffolding, he would never have realized that this was but a mere illusion. “Though I am sorry for your loss, Director.”

The Director hums noncommittally, eyes trailing over into the corner, as if she can hear Minho and Hyunjin’s hearts banging against their chests. “You are excused, Lee Know.”

“I think I’d like to stay and watch.”

Minho, the calculating merciless prodigy referred to as Lee Know in the Facility, stays holding the other tight, a hand clamped over his mouth. He’s shaking like a leaf in the wind, but can’t leave lest he put both himself and Hyunjin in further danger. Yet consequently the suspicion in the Director’s eyes only grows. As the younger wipes his eyes, trying so hard to ignore the presence of the Director, he politely ignores the tears that are slipping down Lee Know’s face in equal measure. Perhaps he weeps for Hyunjin’s safety or over the knowledge that they are both doomed.


	2. too young to be on my own

The private rooms at the Facility always scared Minho enough to stay far, far away from them until his promise of finding Hyunjin after he faded like morning fog. Contrary to the normal areas of the Facility where screams and moans transform into white noise, the private rooms are silent, each footstep a cannon firing in the devastating silence. Between the silence and few lights, the entire area is eerie. Each room is sealed off, intricately designed to bring the right amount of constant mental and physical strain to the prisoner. Minho can’t quite explain why he put everything on the line, played the riskiest gamble - and lost - for the younger man in order to access, much less conquer, this area of the Facility. It was enough of a challenge to even get into the cordoned off section of the North Wing, numerous checkpoints and guards stationed around every corner of the building. Precious few officers and even fewer inmates have the liberty to migrate between the common public area and the private, but Minho had the luck to meet one of these individuals able to slip between worlds. 

Woojin is an inmate unlike any other. He is, by all methods of measure, polite and unassuming, but the other officers have taken a sick interest in his abilities. The older boy, many times, is still led around in shackles and handcuffs, serving as a necessary implementation in numerous tactics the guards employed against inmates in both sections of the prison. As much as he tried to fight back, to protect the others from harm, the retaliation against both Woojin and the prisoner was worse than what they originally had in store for him. As Woojin lost his inner fight, he lost the constant shackles.

As Minho would walk down the hallways, small food and medical items shoved up his sleeve, the whispers of the inmates always carried the same tune,  _ Beware the Puppetmaster.  _

One twitch of Woojin’s fingers had an inmate stiffening, limbs starting to move in tandem with the slight rotations of his appendages. Eyes full of horror attempted to meet his own, as Woojin bites his lip while obeying whatever whims the officers had on that particular day. When he fought back, retaliation swift and merciless against the guards - he was overwhelmed, lost, and exhausted even as the piles of bodies left in his trail grew, some covered in vicious cuts and others with purple faces, having died clawing at their necks. It was one of the reasons that Woojin had his private cell in the North Wing, but was the only one allowed to leave. The luxuries he was granted seemed almost infinite to the other inmates, but Minho knows that the other’s leash was just longer.

“His abilities,” the Director mused, “Are beyond anything that we have seen before.” 

For all of the rumors about the vicious man, Minho was surprised when he, himself, ran into the man he now knows to be Woojin. His hair is pushed out of his eyes as he kneels in the cafeteria, hands moving swiftly as the inmate on the ground moans in pain, hand clutching Woojin’s shirt as the older man continues working. He shushes the inmate on the ground, promising only a few more minutes, as he carries on aiding the older mutant. The guards, as usual, have kept from interfering due to the warnings from the Director, but sit with frowns on their faces. 

“This part will hurt a little more,” says Woojin apologetically, handing a small strip of cloth for the other to bite down on. “But we’re almost done.”

Without the small bundle of cotton in the other’s mouth, Minho is certain that the screams would’ve been deafening. He, himself, is lingering on the outskirts of the cafeteria, standing on the raised platform surrounding the walls of the square room. His pressed collar of his suit seems particularly suffocating today, upon viewing the scene below. The injured man lets out a shaky sigh, sliding down on the ground as Woojin brushes invisible dust off his hands seeing that the inmate on the floor’s wound - two deep gashes across his chest - have been neatly sewn with lines of glinting, nearly invisible thread. 

The sliding, creaking groan of Woojin’s cell door has him on his feet, hands twitching quickly in preparation to defend himself. A head pokes out from around the door and quickly Woojin strikes, nailing the officer in the face as he yelps and ducks out of the way. 

“I told you not to bother me, Sungwon,” snaps Woojin, readjusting his hand. The upright bass strings are heavy, cutting into his grip, but they’re the ones that deliver the most damage. Sungwon is a tall, beefy guard who towers over the already tall Woojin, nearly a wall of impenetrable muscle. Even the most vicious of Woojin’s attacks do little to deter the man from taking what he wants, each time taking a little more of Woojin’s soul. 

“I told you not to bother me, Sungwon,” echoes the other, mockingly, almost in a baby voice. His biting remark betrays how weak his voice sounds, still attempting to catch his breath from how close Woojin’s strings had come to striking his neck even deeper. He thinks he might have a scar on the bridge of his nose now. “I’m not Sungwon, so please don’t hit me.” 

He glances around the metal door, creeping into the room before closing the door the majority of the way. The newcomer is an officer, the black jumpsuit and crisp collar, marked with a pin of status, betrays his youthful appearance. Slipping out freshly prepared food from where he had kept it close to his chest, Minho sits down across from the wary Woojin. “I have a favor to ask of you,” he says quietly. “I need information on another inmate in the private sector.”

xxx

Lee Know - Minho - was an enigma Woojin never quite anticipated, nor knew what to do about. After his polite refusal, the younger still returned time and time again, devising a few plans under the other officers that would warrant such frequent visits. The Director could not be more pleased with how Woojin and Minho’s plans were coming to fruition, a failsafe given the hesitancy of the World Government to back their latest operations. Minho is guarded and an oddity, by all of Woojin’s impossibly low standards, lashing out verbally and puffing his chest only to do a 180 and feed Woojin some of the food he had snuck in and make weird noises to articulate something.

And yet, it was nice, the kinship of being with another who was considered to be just as much - if not more - of an outsider and traitor to their own kind was a relief. The more intel the two gathered on the missing friend - Hyunjin - the more certain Minho was that he had to go and attempt to help the other in whatever way he can.  _ It’s my fault, Woojin, I should’ve done more to cover for him. You didn’t see him, Woojinnie.  _ The brief visits became more bold and daring, more frequent and Minho only solidified his certainty that he could Hyunjin out - sacrificing himself in the process if need be. Woojin, alternatively, grew more certain that Minho was on a suicide mission. 

Woojin doesn’t fancy himself a hero and although the younger’s determination is admirable, he is certain that Minho won’t make it far. A small voice cries out that  _ he could make it, you could all make it if you help _ but Woojin ignores it, biting his lip as tears slip down his cheeks as Minho fails to return one day. It’s been months - by the strings he adds to his ceiling - close to six months now. The loneliness is crushing but, in spite of Minho’s disappearance - not disappearance, he finds out in a meeting hours from the fateful failed execution in the Gymnasium - the plans Minho had devised move forward. 

The prisoner knows that a clock is ticking down, time growing ever shorter before the plans are finalized. As much as he hates to admit it, Minho is a genius when it comes to working the Facility system, but the young officer never anticipated the weight with which the Director would propel his ideas forward. Reinstating the arena system in the event that the World Government cut funding - establish it with gladiator fighting, similar to survival shows of idols but with higher stakes.  _ People never care if it’s a spectacle, their ability to distance themselves from what they find interesting is endless _ , the Director states, lacing her fingers together,  _ Tell me more, Lee Know _ . 

Minho’s plans to get Hyunjin out of the Facility would put a wrench in these proposed plans, they required a large amount of energy and electricity to power such operations. The Government could cut funding, cut power and without Hyunjin, they would be left to rot. Woojin privately wasn’t sure he believed him, but found himself slowly growing more hopeful.

That is, of course, until Minho didn’t return. Woojin, wandering the hallways toward another private room at a guard’s request, noticed the increased personnel around the room they determined was that of Hyunjin. He failed, then. The older boy hadn’t expected to get this distressed about it, but he found his hope withering like a flower in autumn. 

Nevertheless he has little time to process, thrown into himself having to find a solution to the ailment of the patient - prisoner? - at the request of the senior medical authority on staff. Priming the patients - particularly those in the private cells - for the arena is a key goal of the Director and Woojin, with his few years of medical residency, is the best candidate for the physical injuries. He originally studied music therapy but after a falling out with his parents, had to restart his education getting as far as a few stints in surgery. The guard opens the door, pushing him inside, leaving his cuffs on and retreating down the hallway. He’s been shackled more often, recently. Woojin won’t be able to sew deep wounds shut with his hands bound but somehow he suspects the guard knows this.

This is a strange private room; the main door opening to a long hallway leading to a sealed room. The door shakes, but little sound escapes - a soundproof room? The patient, somewhat slight in stature but imposing in his expression, is pounding against the window of the anechoic chamber - all but throwing himself against the way in his urgency. The small luxuries of a cello, piano, and stuffed Munchlax he was awarded at a ranking officer’s request have long since been taken away in punishment, the other cast aside into this room where he can no longer inflict damage on anyone else. 

For all that the volatile patients are the ones in the private rooms, they are also the ones who are favored by the few guards or officers that visit. Distantly, he remembers that his mutant must’ve been the one that used to play at the late night dinners the officers would host on site. Woojin had always liked the quiet tambor of his cello, a heartbeat thrumming through the meetings. It was lovely background music for the dull gatherings - ones that Woojin was made to supervise for little more than spectacle and leering on part of the officers. Private rooms are the ones favored by the guards, after all.

As he enters the room, it is clear that the small enclosed space is little more than a sensory deprivation chamber. The walls are padded heavily, the patient’s own eyes continually blindfolded with earmuffs to limit hearing any noise he himself can make. It’s all, as various guards told Woojin, for our own protection after his stunt in the meeting room a few weeks ago. He trembles, holding himself as he feigns sleep on the foam surface of the room - pretending that he was not throwing himself at his door moments ago. The patient's temperament, particularly his irritability, have only worsened after losing the plush toy. 

Woojin gingerly leans forward, touching the other’s shoulder - both promptly flinching away from the other with how fast the other moved, even as he hisses quietly and covers his stomach. The prisoner looks around wildly, scooting closer to the wall, away from Woojin but unable to locate where the rest of him is or if there are others who accompanied him. From the red staining the plain white day clothes of the prisoners, it is clear the younger’s stomach has been cut and has not healed. With the light from the flashlight that he was provided - tucked under his chin - it’s clear that the other’s wound has gone untreated for a number of days. The sight of the infection is gruesome and it's going to be a long time for Woojin to sew this up and get the younger “arena-ready.”

He laces his fingers in the blindfold and tugs it down. At first the other thrashes before stilling as he realizes what’s happening, the earmuffs come off shortly after as Woojin works at their intricate bindings. The chafing on the wrists from the leather bindings is tender, so Woojin has to use small precise slashes of razor-sharp strings. There’s little point to leather bindings - they’re quiet and help deter the younger from escaping, but accomplish little else. The other blinks, squinting at the bright light of the flashlight, as he frowns, “I still can’t see well.”

“You’ve been in total darkness. It’ll take a while for your eyes to adjust,” says Woojin quietly, sitting next to him and offering some gauze for the blood and blisters on the other’s wrists. “My name is Woojin, I’m another inmate here.”

“Are we roommates,” asks the other flatly. 

“Uh...no,” replies Woojin, “We’re not.” 

“Then you’re a guard,” clarifies the other with a nod of his head. He can feel his hands pulsing, warming with the noise provided by the other and his own heartbeat, now that he’s been freed from the headphones. If he stalls for a moment longer he should be able to disarm the guard. Woojin almost wishes that his position was that simple, so cut and dry - it’s much harder to build trust when he’s the puppetmaster to inmates and a puppet to the Director. 

“Your heartbeat is really fast. Are you nervous?”

Anechoic chambers are so quiet they allow a person to be able to hear their own heartbeat, some even swear they can hear their own brain activity. Somehow, it’s easy to tell that this boy with a thin face and dark hair doesn’t even need the silence to hear these things. Woojin sighs, fidgeting with his own bindings as the silence drags on. The tight space somehow seems endless in the low light, the walls pressing on Woojin’s head and chest, the world starting to tilt on its axis.

“I suppose so. I’m not very fond of small spaces and it feels weird in here.” 

“I know.” Gyu, his Muchlax, was a reassuring presence for all of the hours Changbin spent alone in the darkness, pressing his face against the plush exterior. It smelled of fresh linen and was welcome sensory stimulation from the oppressive atmosphere of the anechoic chamber that was designed to be his room. He would often mumble things to the plush toy and had developed a habit of holding Gyu tight at night, a habit he had often had as a child - he can’t sleep without him, he’s found out. He was allowed to keep the cello, but the piano was little more than a rumor. It wouldn’t have fit in the space regardless. 

Passing the hours running the bow across the strings, breathing in the slight rosin dust from his bowing was a welcome reprieve from the endless silence and darkness. Yet the instrument was taken away after he retailed for his poor treatment at the hands of a guard, channeling all of his energy into his playing - watching closely as the angry red music swelled, visible only to his eyes, before targeting the man. Changbin’s sharp movements and pulse of the music had the man blown off his feed before his retreating figure had even taken five steps away from the musician.

They hadn’t needed to take Gyu, too, but the guards were nothing if not thorough. 

When Changbin’s powers began developing, he didn’t know how to play the cello. He still has no formal training, merely listens for what sounds effective for the purpose that he wants - whether it's enchanting synthesia, destructive blasts, or sonar. He hasn’t tried sonar, but he thinks that he could. When exploring, the cello was a lightning rod for his purposes. Now, however, after weeks spent in isolation hearing nothing but his own blood pulsing in his ears, his groans from bleeding out at his stomach - he thinks he might be able to graduate to using his vocal cords. 

He whistles sharply, the destructive wave targeting Woojin as he rolls away from the other. Changbin whistles again, louder, more frantic as he faces the older mutant directly. The anechoic chamber absorbs the sound impact, Woojin still feeling the brunt of a concussive blast but little more than what would’ve been had the sound reverberated properly. The younger cusses, taking the other’s stunned silence as an opportunity and throwing the door open, hobbling down the hallway. His stomach aches, wound reopening further as he hustles down the hallway only to stop. Changbin turns as much as the restrictions on his body will allow, body twitching and jerking in place, eyes smoldering coals as he surveys Woojin from the corner of his vision.

“What did you do?” he grits out.

“It’s string,” replies Woojin simply, easing Changbin out of the thin, almost invisible strings, “You’re too injured to be running around and putting yourself at risk.”

“String isn’t this strong.” 

Woojin shrugs, offering a hand to the younger as a peace offering. “And sound shouldn’t be concussive, but here we are.”

And somehow, in the span of a few moments, neither boy was alone anymore. Changbin’s recovery process was slow going, Woojin visiting often to resew the wound and check on the younger’s infection. And as the infection receded, as the color in Changbin’s face came back, their friendship continued to grow and develop, a rosebud preparing to spread its petals toward the sun.

“If you cut a string, would someone die?” jokes Changbin as Woojin stares unamusedly, the resulting silence between them thick and palpable. Changbin smiles, shifting a little where he’s laying propped up on a side as Woojin wonders how he should respond to the other’s comment. Deciding to chastise the younger, the other mutant tugs a little harder on the thread he is replacing the wound up with after having cleaned the wounds. 

Later, Changbin watches with bated breath as Woojin tears more of his green-blue sheets apart, thread glinting in the light of the private cell. The string glints once, twice in the reflection as the needle Woojin had managed to acquire bobs and weaves its way through the fabric, stretching and pulling the cloth into a familiar shape and design. Woojin hisses as the needle pokes his skin, and Changbin titters nervously, “You’re sure this is okay? You don’t have to do this.”

“As someone who is almost - ow - a medical professional and tired of getting hit with tired blasts of sound, yes, I do. Besides the needle work is important to keep my sewing skills sharp. I can’t exactly practice on the two of us all of the time. Here, I think it’s done.”

The cloth is different than he’s used to and the face is a little lopsided but the homemade Munchlax is a kindness Changbin hasn’t experienced in months. His Gyu from childhood is irreplaceable but Woojin sacrificing his own bedsheets so that Changbin can sleep means just as much in the Facility, if not more. He buries his face in the fabric, holding the small plush close to his face and heart, inhaling deeply. Changbin wipes his eyes on the plush for a moment before launching himself into Woojin’s arms. His body shakes with sobs as he tries to make his appreciation known; that night, holding his new Munchlax is almost as reassuring as Woojin’s steadying hand on his shoulder.

“We’re going to have to fight?” asks Changbin, “That’s not an efficient way of killing people. Plus all of their torture tactics will be for naught.”

“We need to work on your sense of humor,” mutters Woojin as they glance at the day’s food on their trays. Changbin is seated across from him in his private room cross legged on the floor with his homemade Munchlax in his lap as he pokes at the gelatinous mass with his chopsticks. It wiggles and for a moment Changbin is reminded of the old American horror movie of the goo-like life form that absorbed everything it touches.  _ Maybe this will do the same? _

“You don’t seem very concerned,” said Woojin, “Anyone will do anything that a higher authority tells them. I think it was proven by a psychology study. People are going to  _ die _ .”

Changbin slowly pushes his chopsticks into the blob, watching as they sink in and wiggle in midair for a moment. He manages to secure a bit of the slimy substance between his chopsticks, holding it up to his mouth and giving it a tentative sniff. As his face contorts he responds, “If we’re being groomed for slaughter, you think they would feed us better.”

Having been in the Facility for less than a year Changbin was no stranger to the perceptions that the World Government and Facility held of mutants. Hell, even his own parents and sisters were the ones to call the Facility when he inadvertently shut the radio and TV off due to early sensory-overload. Multiple times. It had gotten out of hand by the time he realized he could see the sound swelling in different colors, beckoning to be used and directed. The cuffs were on his hands before he even realized that the grating, loud noises of a construction zone had caused him to create a potentially devastating crack in the apartment building’s foundation. Changbin wouldn’t be missed. He told himself he was fine with that.

Being alone gave Changbin plenty of time to know what all the different colors meant, what emotions fueled what type of blast. This particular part of his ability was the reason that he was isolated in the first place - being in crowded areas such as the Gymnasium or cafeteria gave the other too much power. It was a surprise that someone - a boy, not much different in age than Changbin himself - had advocated so strongly for something to harness his abilities. When he displayed such potential, the Director had accepted the request, the cello appearing not long after. Yet Changbin refused to use it, determined to let the so-called “gift” gather dust in the corner. Still the week turned into months and caving to growing isolation and boredom, Changbin had picked up the cello, settling it in his lap. 

Woojin’s voice was similar to the cello although lighter in a sense - still tones of jade green, serene notes floating up around the dark room even as the anechoic chamber absorbed much of what was emitted. Acting cutesy, full of aegyo, made bubblegum pink and baby blue with fun splashes of yellow - almost watercolor pastel in appearance. Music was a language that Changbin had always admired, serenades to spitting hard rap verses was as versatile as any other artistic medium. Now it was a canvas that only he knew how to decorate so intimately, carefully.

He hums to himself, sprawled on his back with his arms tucked under his head - Munchlax to his right - when the door opens. The spirals of mournful blue continue escaping down the hallway, even as he stops whistling, he watches them escape with a sense of envy. Yet, dutifully he stands, bowing in greeting leisurely as the guard turns to face him.

“Get up, collect your things,” she barks, dark hair in a tight bun on the base of her neck. Changbin raises an eyebrow, scooping up his Munchlax plush and dusting himself off. He only really has the one pair of clothes that he would wash every so often; it was hard enough to wait for the 3 times daily trips to the bathroom - some things took precedence to cleaning his uniform in the allotted washroom time.

“Am I being demoted?” he asks wryly as he is being led down the hallway, meeting Woojin’s concerned gaze as the older man walks in the opposite direction, perhaps towards Changbin’s old room. The guard doesn’t answer, merely swipes her pass and pushes him away from the private rooms toward the common areas. They veer off suddenly and a bead of cold sweat trails down Changbin’s back as they head toward - he thinks - what must be the Director’s area. There’s less prisoners here, the floors more polished and doors nicer with different plaques and nameplates. One door has its plate removed. “Not even a warning for my execution?”

Woojin always said that Changbin’s dark sense of humor was discomforting. That in a place such as this it does little to help diffuse the situation - Changbin personally liked the uncomfortable jokes. Guards were so easy to make uneasy when put on the spot. After all, a joking prisoner is a human one and that is a dangerous thought for a guard to have.

“Wait here.”

After waiting for ages, a guard hauls a dozing Changbin upright and ushers him into a long, narrow room. The walls are dark in color, the floors made of a rich wood - a stark contrast from the blinding white of the hallway. The room is filled with a table that extends for kilometers, with chairs spaced evenly apart, seemingly some sort of conference room, but even if the maximum occupancy is 50, there’s only 2 other occupants. The Director sits with her fingers steepled together and another man sitting next to her side.

The Director gestures to her side where the man is sitting as Changbin is led into the chair directly across from them. Given that they take up less than a fifth of the table, the space in the room seems a little overkill. Changbin’s first thought is that the man looks far too nice to be in a place such as the Facility, the ID on his breast pocket denoting VISITOR in clear, bold font. 

“ _ Changbin _ ,” says the Director sweetly and all of the warning bells in the young man’s head go off. “Our esteemed guest from the International Red Cross is here to talk to you. Alone.”

That’s all the information he gets about the other man as the Director excuses herself. The look the Director gives him as she leaves the room is almost predatory and immediately the mutant is glad that he has his Munchlax plush with him - for nothing more than to avoid digging his fingernails so hard into his palms his hands bleed. 

The stranger sits across from Changbin, opening the file and arranging his yellow notepad and purple pens. He looks about as comfortable as Changbin feels, face pale as he continues adjusting his things. The time drags on ever slower and Changbin tilts his head to the side, listening for the buzz of the electricity signaling that the Director is listening to and recording every word that isn’t being said.

“Are you actually going to ask me anything, Snail, or can I leave?” He doesn’t have the emotional energy to deal with this nonsense. Changbin knows what the Director wants him to say - how he gets to see the other inmates, how he had preferential medical treatment just this last month, how he’s been fortunate enough to get a room where he’s not a danger to himself or others, how he also has access to instruments and comfort items. 

“Well, um, my name is Kim Seungmin and I am a Staff Attorney with the Red Cross. I’m investigating potential violations of IHL, international humanitarian law, and after  _ months  _ I have been granted the ability to tour the Facility and talk to various inmates.”

He pauses a little, waiting for Changbin to say anything but the other merely nods once. He knows what’ll happen - even if this kid realizes what is going on in the Facility bureaucracy is slow. The Facility is faster, already planning what to do as the World Government withdraws public approval. The Director will make a show with inmates like Changbin, a beautiful spectacle for the efficiency and humanity with which patients are processed. The repercussions against those who speak out will be swift and painful, perhaps fatal.

Still, Changbin is feeling daring today. He knows he’s not going back to his cell regardless - his Munchlax in his grip is proof of that. A test then, before he says everything that might go to waste regardless. 

“Did the Director say we have to meet in this room, Snail?”

xxx

Seungmin was in over his head. 

He has always wanted to be a prosecutor - well, after being an idol or a baseball player didn’t work out. The quiet whispers of what the Facility does, his own interest in helping others and the tight job market made taking a noble (if low pay) position in various humanitarian organizations. Not to mention, he owes it to his sister. Besides, his work with this organization is a fantastic stepping stone for a later career as a prosecutor and excellent practice refining his research capabilities.

Yet the Facility has proved an unprecedented challenge. The resistance to have an entourage enter the gates, the refusal for anyone larger or more experienced than Seungmin is a clear warning sign. They wouldn’t have to go inside in the first place if there weren’t such obvious signs of maltreatment. Changbin himself clung to his comfort item, shaking every so often and struggling to concentrate on what Seungmin was saying.

The patient, Changbin, insists on walking around the Gymnasium, taking lap after lap. It seems nonsensical to be in such a large empty room filled with dirt and construction projects, but it was less oppressive than the original room. Still Seungmin wants the other man to feel secure enough to be able to share his story of his detention and time in the Facility. He seems fairly put together, shaking and concentration aside - Seungmin remains on high alert for other noticeable symptoms of trauma. 

“This is the Gymnasium, you said?” probes Seungmin as the pair begin their second lap.

“Yes, this is where some do labor - there are - less eyes,” he says, cautiously. He glances warily at Seungmin before averting his eyes. “It’s easier to avoid unwanted listeners.”

So they  _ are  _ listening in on their conversations. No wonder Changbin insisted on switching rooms, especially if this is a common occurrence. The conversation peters off and Seungmin knows it isn’t best to push right now, when they are all but strangers to one another. 

“I like your plush - it looks like Munchlax,” offers Seungmin. Changbin hesitates, hiding the toy further in his embrace as if to protect it from prying eyes. 

“It is. My friend made it for me.”

“Can you tell me about your friend?” Hesitation, more this time. Changbin lost his bravado when they began walking around the Gymnasium, the words getting jumbled and confused when he tried to talk about his experiences. How strange, for someone who once always had something to say, rap on the tip of his tongue, to not be able to speak. He promised himself to speak but each time, he feels his chest tighten - he can’t throw Woojin under the bus. He shakes his head.

Seungmin’s face falls. He recovers and states, “Are you two roommates?”

“No, we - um - we both have our own rooms. He’s a...doctor, I guess. It doesn’t matter, my room will probably get moved soon.”

Seungmin fidgets with his bag as he says, almost too casually, “Do you all have to move rooms often?”

“Sometimes? Not for me, but others - my friend said - they move around a lot. It becomes isolating. You can’t find those you know, anymore. Communication becomes harder.” His voice falters at the end before trailing off. 

“What was your private room like?”

He isn’t sure how to convey the utter despair Changbin feels, the fear he feels as he recalls the hours spent in the dark and quiet, devoid of his senses and afraid so afraid. The anxiety is a palpable thing that clings to him even now, even in spite of his moments of bravado, it’s a tar that lingers over all of his insides. Changbin, freezes, speaking before being cognizant of what he’s saying, “Dark. Quiet. So quiet. Cold. I spent days alone - sometimes not allowed to leave - then in my own filth, blind and afraid. Quiet and Dark. I’ve never - I  _ don’t  _ \- I’m sorry. I want to - but can’t - ”

Seungmin, against his better judgment, has a hand on his shoulder, steadying the swaying older man in an instant. Tears are slipping down his face, his features contorted in his distress - overgrown bangs hanging over his eyes. 

“Do you want to keep going? We can take a break, as long as you need,” promises Seungmin, unsure of what else to do. He looks around but the room is still devoid of anyone else, just a few lingering guards. Yet this isn’t normal, he’s certain - the ground is littered in footprints. 

Changbin wordlessly nods, sitting down wearily and putting his head in his hands. He turns, later, and says softly, “I want to tell you everything - I shouldn’t trust you, but I want to. I just -  _ can’t _ .”

“Is there a medium you’d prefer? Others like writing letters, drawing - I can be flexible.”

“Music?” asks Changbin hopefully, looking up from his hands. 

xxx

Changbin isn’t the only name on the list of patients that the Director wants him to see and so, slowly, Seungmin picks through the short (frighteningly short) list of patients that would be willing and able to speak with him. Of the initial handful of patients - Chan, Jisung, Changbin - stick out in Seungmin’s mind the most. Their personalities in both contrast and harmony to the stuttering, shaking worry of the other patients. It was easier, upon Changbin’s suggestion, to walk around the Gymnasium at an ambling pace to talk to the others. Much to his dismay, Seungmin could not acquire an instrument on short notice the first day, but was promised one for tomorrow - the second day of visitation. 

The second patient, Jisung, was flighty and visibly nervous, but his laugh sounded like bells chiming. It was a sound that Seungmin had never anticipated hearing in the oppressive atmosphere of the Facility, but cherished nonetheless. He was so gleeful to find someone his own age, determined to learn more of the wider world since he left - was taken - from school. Yet Jisung for all his forced positivity steadfastly did not talk about his time at the Facility, preferring to mention his roommate offhandedly.

“Your file says that you’ve been here longer than most people, five years, has there been an impact on your life? Could you tell me about the day you were, um, detained?”

“I don’t remember much,” Jisung replies honestly, “I can’t tell you much about my time before the Facility and I’m not sure that I want to in the first place.”

They take another lap before Jisung turns to Seungmin, eyes open and honest, “I want to believe in you and what I know you believe in, but I’ve been lied to before. I can’t believe in your crusade as much as you do. You must understand the more we talk about the Facility the more we put ourselves at risk.”

Seungmin nods, opening and closing his mouth as he tries to regain his control of the conversation. Jisung walks off, patting the other’s shoulder awkwardly before beckoning Seungmin to follow him out of the Gymnasium, toward the original meeting room when he pauses, trembling against the wall. Somewhere further down the hallway, there’s a stampede of boots with a cacophony of shouts and screams. The attorney swears he feels another inmate push past him - pushing him down in the panic,  _ ohgodohgod, I’m going to die _

When Seungmin blinks hard, shaking the fuzz out of his mind everything is silent. Jisung is still pale and sweating against the wall, but the hallways are as empty as they’ve always been. The patient frowns as he takes the offered hand, pulling himself to his feet. 

“Where - did everyone go?” asks Seungmin, “There were so many people and I was - hurt? Bleeding? Did you see that?”

“I wish  _ you  _ hadn’t seen that,” mutters Jisung bitterly. “I swore I was getting a hold on that.”

Seungmin reels for a moment longer, trying to determine what was reality from fiction. Jisung is faster to recover, sharp to analyze the situation, leaning forward and cupping Seungmin’s cheeks between his hands and pressing their foreheads together. For a moment there’s nothing but pain and images that give Seungmin a deep sense of dread even if he, himself, has never seen them before. A metal table, cables and wires leading from nowhere, the feel of a guard’s baton slamming into his side. There’s a shout from the guards patrolling the rooms, rushing forward to pull Jisung off of the Red Cross worker - quick to subdue the young man.

“Can we talk more tomorrow?” Seungmin asks weakly, but the guards shake their heads, dragging the other man off in the distance. If the attorney concentrates, he thinks he can pick out the strikes of the baton and shoes connecting with Jisung’s side. 

And that’s when Seungmin had realized the extent that he was out of his depth; his briefing had mentioned the suppression of those with otherworldly abilities, but this was far worse than anyone had been led to believe. And what a display of power! Both times must’ve been Jisung or another patient, broadcasting experiences or memories. It felt too real for a hallucination, but this was nothing that he had ever experienced before. Mutants in the media were being downplayed, portrayed as a minor threat that is easily handled by the World Government and the Facility. As a child, Seungmin was led to believe mutations were at most small sparks from fingerprints, moving a glass off of a table, not playing one’s own memories like a film in the mind of another. He was left reeling and nervous, but nodded and thanked Jisung profusely for his insights. 

Chan is much different, carries himself in a way that both intimidates and relaxes Seungmin. His eyes sometimes shift so that they’re glassy in a way that belies his intelligence or presence in the situation, but when he speaks it’s with a gravity that feels inescapable. He’s also almost inexplicably calm, conversing with Seungmin with a reassuring smile and light jokes. 

“You think that if the Director wanted to pass this investigation she would’ve made it open to all patients,” Chan says casually, “But I suppose it doesn’t matter.”

Chan bites his tongue from continuing that it won’t matter in the end because the campaign will fail, but he wants to see where Seungmin might take this. It’s not his business nor character to try and crush Seungmin’s dreams before they’ve truly taken off.

The certainty with which the older man relates the information is frightening and Seungmin thinks back to the file that he was given. Chan had seemed surprised that Seungmin knew anything about him at all and had enthusiastically read the contents of his file, laughing to himself as he scanned the section of behavioral issues and suspected psychosis - almost identical to that of Jisung’s. 

“It’s why they’re roommates,” the Director explained upon presenting the information to the attorney. “Delusions, hallucinations, agitation, they’re both highly prone to these false sensations and we want to make sure that they have someone to ground them.”

“Are they protected from harming themselves or one another? What treatment are they getting?” asked Seungmin and the Director had stated plainly, “ECT - Electroconvulsive Therapy.” 

Chan, currently, shuts the file and slides it back to Seungmin. He tilts his head with a light, if uncertain smile on his face as he surveys the other, dark eyes picking the younger apart layer by layer. The silence is thick enough to cut with a knife but neither move to start the conversation upon returning the thin file - there’s little information on how the ECT is progressing or the amount of shocks, if there’s any noticeable side effects such as memory loss. 

“The file says you get ECT - electroshock therapy - twice a week,” starts Seungmin.

“And you believe that?” asks Chan with his eyebrows raised. He cocks his head a little further, but makes no further comment on the matter. He idly rubs his temple, ignoring the impending vision - hoping that it won’t hit until he’s at least in his cell.

“That’s not -” splutters Seungmin, but Chan pushes forward changing the subject and further taking what little control the other holds over the flow of conversation. 

“So how did you come to be interviewing me today? Also, how did you get into the Facility’s good graces to visit? You aren’t a mutant.”

That throws Seungmin for a loop. He blinks, narrowing his eyes at Chan as he says, “No, I’m not affiliated with the Facility - this is the only time I’ve been here. And, no, as far as I know, I’m not a mutant.”

“As far as you know,” says Chan slowly, running a hand through his hair. In the light it’s easy to see the bruising there, dark blooms of red and purple leaving a stark reminder of the handcuffs placed there. He smiles, and says in a teasing tone, “That’s not very reassuring for you.” 

“No, I suppose not,” says Seungmin, making note of the bruising on his notepad. Unlike the previous patients, Chan had been content to sit in the cool air of the conference room - Seungmin now realizing it’s due to the fact that Chan has no qualms speaking out against the Facility and was easily able to steer the conversation in a direction that would benefit him.

“Why are you so certain that I’m either affiliated with the Facility or a mutant?” 

Chan shrugs, “From what I can tell, if you walk through those doors you have to be one or the other. Why are you here by yourself? Because it doesn’t matter. I appreciate what you are doing, I think it’s admirable, but I don’t think the authorities here will let you make progress. You could come back here every day, get testimonies from every single inmate here and it wouldn’t make a difference. No one’s going to help us. You can’t and the Government won’t. We have to fend for ourselves.” 

He says it plainly, as one might discuss the weather. It’s almost chastising to Seungmin in a way, mocking his idealism to do what he can and his face feels hot. Yet he knows, inwardly, that was not Chan’s intention - he’s just outlining the rough path ahead.

Many people over the years have called Bang Chan a hopeless idealist, a determined dreamer, but even he knows that outside help is slow moving and endlessly frustrating. Still as defensive as he is, steadfast in staying with Jisung and Minho and following through with Minho’s plan, something about Seungmin is familiar. One of his longer visions - a boy crying on his knees, head in his hands, surrounded by countless guards, clutching papers in his hands as waves of  _ something  _ emanate off of him - a pulse? - nags at him in the back of his mind from the moment he sees the younger. He waves it off. Abilities don’t manifest this late and a mutant going into the Facility is all but suicide.

The inmate pauses for a moment, wetting his lips before continuing, “I don’t want to discourage you, I know you have good intentions or you wouldn’t have made it this far, but I have to know if I can trust you. I have to look out for my people and protect my own, but that can include you, too. If you let me.”

Chan and his motivations are an enigma to say the least.

xxx

The last patient, and perhaps the most memorable one that Seungmin meets on his first and last day interviewing patients, is Felix. Contrary to the others, Felix is not allowed to be left alone in Seungmin’s presence, but he doesn’t seem to notice or care. Still, Seungmin is wary of the imposing guard permanently affixed to the patient’s side, looming behind him with his arms crossed. Yet his presence seems to be more for decorum than the actual safety of either party. Seungmin bows and holds out the file for the younger to view, but when Felix leaned forward to grasp the file the guard quickly pushes him down forcefully in his seat. 

Seungmin smiles tightly, saying, “I appreciate your concern, but these are supposed to be private interviews, sir, so if you would take your leave.”

“Can’t. This one has to be supervised at all times.”  _ This one _ , as if Felix is just another number in the cog, a nameless stranger one might encounter walking down the street to never see again. Felix’s frown grows slowly, eyes narrowing at the official to his side, but makes no move to comment. Seungmin nods in understanding, making a show of bending down to place the file in his bag before sliding it across the floor. Felix catches it, tugging it closer with his foot without looking up - it all feels very covert, spy-like and Seungmin has to suppress his smile. 

“What’s your name?” he asks, trying hard not to watch as Felix attempts to wiggle the file up into his lap. 

“Felix,” he replies after some pause. He bites his lip before continuing, “Yours? Your name?”

“Oh, my name is Kim Seungmin, I’m an attorney with the International Red Cross and I’m doing investigation on the organization’s behalf into the Facility.”

“Oh...okay.” The rehearsed, measured tone with which he speaks as well as the pinch of his brows between his eyes indicates to Seungmin that perhaps Felix  _ doesn’t  _ know what’s going on. He has a lilt to what little Korean he speaks and but the file didn’t mention anything about him being a foreigner. That coupled with the presence of the guard who makes little effort to help Felix and Seungmin communicate creates a very peculiar atmosphere. 

“Can you tell me about your time here, in the Facility?”

Felix holds the file carefully, taking his time to look at the characters on the page as stealthy as he’s able but is slow to respond. “I’m from Australia, I don’t know why...I’m here. There was...no talking about why.”

_ Australia? He doesn’t know why he was detained?  _ Regardless of Felix’s own confusion, his country is an ally of the World Government that still retained part of its original ruling authorities, unlike other countries such as the United States. Yet, make no mistake, there are no entirely independent countries in this day and age. Australia is known for being strong advocates for mutant rights - if his family was informed they likely would’ve fought for him - Seungmin had heard that the restrictions and stigma are looser there, but never expected to meet a detainee from the country in the Facility of all places.

Felix huffs, frustrated, continuing a few more times and stumbling his way around the gaps in vocabulary. He sighs again before codeswitching for the words he doesn’t know, trying his best to communicate his experience of the Facility. Their knowledge of each other’s language helps bridge some gaps but the guard keeps stepping closer to Felix, as if warning him of sharing things that he shouldn’t. 

The other begins skipping over Korean in an effort to get his point across, but unfortunately Seungmin’s English is not nearly developed enough to keep pace with Felix’s frantic dialogue as the other states: “I don’t know why I’m here, I don’t know how long it’s been, I was visiting family and was  _ abducted  _ \- they put a blindfold was forced over my eyes and I woke up in a cell and no one’s told me why. I can’t do any of the things that they want me to - things happen, they explode, there’s this  _ energy _ , but I can’t control it. I’ve been forgetting things and waking up in random places and I don’t know if I’m doing it or if it’s something else -” 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t quite get all of that.” Seungmin understood most of it, but processing what Felix was indicating on top of translating the other language was proving more difficult. Trying to ask his next question in English doubly so. Felix groans, holding his head in his hands for a moment. His cheeks flush red in frustration - with himself or the attorney, Seungmin isn’t sure - as he runs a hand through his hair, a strange rose-colored hue around his finger tips. After a blink, though, it’s gone, nothing more than a trick of the light.

The following silence is cut only by the nervous rustling from the patient seated across from him. He shifts every so often, pressing firm fingers to the inside of his wrist before adjusting again. His eyes look at the guard out of the corner of his eye before watching the table again. Felix exhales slowly, hanging his head down and cupping his hands on either side of his neck. The other is shaking violently, tears slipping down his cheeks, as Seungmin attempts to reach forward, only to be pushed back by the guard who is scooting Felix away from him. 

The room erupts in that rose-colored light, primarily originating from Felix’s hands but before Seungmin can make any effort to get close to the other - the guard moves. The official’s answer is violence before sedation, slamming Felix on the ground by the neck, looping an arm around. The choking and wheezing the other emits is the worst sound that Seungmin thinks he’s heard all day - this has to be a violation of human rights, there’s no doubt - and the attorney’s screams to stop meet deaf ears. He screams again and things in his panic go a little fuzzy. When he comes to his ears are ringing and Felix is rising to his feet, chest still heaving but facing the guard. 

Almost unconsciously he holds up a hand bouncing back the charging bull from the panel of light shielding himself. Still the guard grabs his radio, calling for backup as Felix stands up fully, hands glowing pink. He pushes hard with his shield, the guard skittering backward a considerable amount. There’s an invisible wind that ruffles his hair in and Seungmin can hear his heart thunder in his chest as the tension builds.

The moment breaks and the guard storms forward. Felix flicks his wrist and a blazing sword manifests from the rose colored light in his right hand and he immediately launches into an offensive attack against the official. He spins, launching himself into the air while pivoting on his left foot and leading into a well aimed kick at the guard’s head. The sword is in his hand - technically - but it might as well be an afterthought. The kicks as well are charged with the same type of power. As the hit lands, the beefier man is kicked into the floor hard, but quickly recovers with a few jabs of his own. Still Felix is faster - diving to the floor and sweeping the other’s feet out from under him with a manic smirk on his face.

The fight continues as the noises in the hallway grow louder as the guards grow closer in their proximity. Seungmin is still standing frozen in the corner - unaware of when he even left his chair. One more flying, spinning kick at the face to disorient the guard and, just before delivering a blow with a sword he scarcely seemed aware of, Felix grows cognizant of the blade in his hand. He staggers, eyes growing wide as he looks at his hand, no longer focusing on the fight as a fist comes flying at him. 

The one hit doesn’t subdue the other immediately but the subsequent facial hits might’ve. Doctors and other guards arrive, administering a shot of something before forcing Felix’s limp body into a straitjacket. Within five minutes Seungmin thinks he might’ve found a case to take to the International Red Cross and yet as the Director enters the room, Seungmin thinks he, himself, might need help too. 

xxx

If Jeongin has to be in the Facility, he wishes that he had thought to get his braces off early. He honestly doesn’t mind them, but after an extra year of the metal cutting the inside of his cheeks when he’s definitely not going to debut as an idol now - it all seems a little pointless to leave them on. He hadn’t had them on but a week when he was taken; he suspects the orthodontist was the one to make the call. He’s been at the Facility almost three years, give or take, from the number of the tallies left in his Quarantine cell in addition to his current amount but he’s under no delusions that he’ll be able to leave the Facility any time soon. 

He doesn’t have roommates but he also isn’t in the North Wing. There are plenty of bunks available to house other mutants and yet his room and the adjacent ones stay empty - perhaps they’ve forgotten about him after the liquidation of his area of the Facility a few months ago. All the better. It allows him to keep practicing his jumps - one time he won’t end up nude and will have his braces off, thank you very much - so the loneliness is tolerable. Besides, Jeongin has always wanted his own room, so really, there are no complaints to be had. 

He’ll be okay on his own, keep his head low and stick to himself. It’s better than having the predatory sights of the guards or larger, older inmates locked onto him. A quick jump into the kitchen of the cafeteria where he’ll charm Haerin and Iseul into providing a few extra portions of food and then he’ll jump out. And he  _ won’t  _ lose his clothes this time - it’s down to a 1 in 5 chance, so the statistics are on his side. Besides the motherly woman and her nephew have long since grown used to Jeongin popping in unannounced and accidentally indecent. If he does lose his clothes there will likely be a robe for him to sit in if he chooses to stay and chat.

His aim is much better when he can see where he’s going but when he tries to aim for something he doesn’t have a visual on, well, that’s when he ends up not focusing on the important things. Like making sure his uniform survived the jump. Making it there in one piece with all of his body parts accounted for and  _ not  _ running into a wall and getting another nosebleed is much more crucial than ensuring that his clothes jumped with him. Still as a general rule of thumb he tries not to do blind jumps. It’s better for everyone - getting beyond the windowless door into the kitchen is usually where his most recent mishaps have happened. 

He concentrates, pushing on the invisible fabric of reality until he can almost visualize a hole large enough to jump through. It’s the only way he could try to understand becoming incorporeal and ending up over 4 meters away. It’s easy to envision cracks that he slips through but others have told him it’s like he disappears in a puff of smoke - he thinks it would be cooler if he could make portals. He pushes through, ending up sprawled on the floor just outside of his cell - he stands up, brushing himself off with a self satisfied grin.

Jeongin walks down the hallway as casually as he can so as to not draw attention to himself. Guards are just as wary of him as he is of them, but he knows that they are at a distinct disadvantage if push comes to shove and Jeongin has to stand his ground.  _ The Stray of Block J  _ or the  _ Ghost Kid,  _ depending on how much they actually knew about Jeongin - most people didn’t actually think the young man was still living based on the time he landed in the flour in the store rooms of the kitchen. Then again, sometimes he worried about it himself. 

This particular day, his own reputation is not on his side, he has no idea what caused the guards and officers to be this on edge but the few apples and cured sausages he’s swiped from the kitchen are almost not worth it. His feet slam on the tile floor as he ducks and dodges the onslaught of guards, trying to save his energy for when he really needs a fast getaway. Yet, inwardly, he knows he’s screwed as he turns a corner for yet more officers to appear, responding to the radio calls for backup. 

Before long, he’s cornered against a wall, squaring off with a guard with a bloodied face. Jeonging exhales slowly, praying to whatever deity takes pity on him as he jumps - only a moment too slow as a fist connects with his head. The disorientation sends him reeling - three rooms away from where he had originally meant to land. Perhaps room is an overstatement...Jeongin manages to fall into the elevator shaft, freefalling numerous floors as he struggles to regain his bearings. 

He manages to make another jump before he hits the ground, bracing himself as he tumbles across the floor - arm bruised and aching, torn up in some places from the friction burn from taking the brunt of his landing. He’s lost his food and his shirt but everything else is accounted for besides his location. He hasn’t seen this part of the building but a crawling sense of unease gives him a pretty good indication of where Jeongin managed to land. Quarantine. Of course he fell down the  _ one  _ elevator that connects here. Just his luck.

At least, given the chaos upstairs, Quarantine is almost quiet for once. The higher volume of guards have been relegated to taking care of the incident on an upper floor so Jeongin finds himself in peaceful solitude once more. He can’t call the elevator down - he has no key card, nor is he keen on running into another guard or five - so he slowly wanders around the labyrinth of Quarantine. 

_ Right, then left, then right, right, left again.  _ Or was it another left? He might be lost, but, he assures himself, it’ll be okay because if he finds a guard he’ll wait until shift rotation and follow them toward the elevator. Before long he manages to find a guard walking in the vague direction that Jeongin had come from, the younger follows, making short jumps to follow without footsteps - aware of his own increasing exhaustion - as the guard goes toward the elevator.

The guard salutes as the doors open and there stands the Director, holding an unconscious young man by the collar of his shirt. He looks healthier than most mutants to whom the Director pays a personal visit. He has dusty purple hair that’s only mottled by the dried blood on his temple, but other than some bruising on his arms the other looks fine.

Jeongin shrinks back into the shadows as the Director all but drags the unconscious man down the hallway. The mutant does his best to not spend most of his free time in Quarantine but everyone knows that the Director does not come down all the way to the basement level, her schedule is too busy - and as much as his heart thuds in his chest, he has to see how this pans out. The man is thrown into a padded room and Jeongin concentrates, teleporting inside as the pair exits the room.  _ What makes this person so special? _

He’s already stripped of identifying information, pockets yielding nothing such as a wallet or ID card. Still, Jeongin grips the other’s cheek and twists hard; the other wakes with a pained expression, wincing at the sensation on his face before jolting upright, nearly colliding with the younger. 

“What happened? Is Felix okay?” He pauses for a moment, eyes flickering around the room before settling once more on Jeongin. The younger smiles at seeing the other is coherent and only mildly concussed, but he can just barely hear a guard coming down the hallway, so he presses a finger to his lips to shush the other before creeping closer toward the door and beckoning him closer. 

_ Director,  _ he mouthed holding his hands out in front of him in fists, shifting them back and forth. One of the older boys, BamBam, wasn’t allowed in the Facility without heavy duty earplugs due to his mutation to prevent further deafness - Jaebeom gifted the earplugs to the younger - and so he primarily used simple signs and gestures to ensure that he wasn’t alerting the guards of whatever they were doing. Turning most things he touched into explosives took a toll on his hearing so earplugs were a necessity. Jeongin hoped the pair had merely been relocated to another part of the Facility, that they had survived the disappearances too. 

“What I want to know is why a mutant that is supposed to be  _ catatonic  _ right now was able to subdue three of my strongest guards,” she screamed. Jeongin met Seungmin’s eyes from where the duo are plastered against the padded door. She sneered, replying to the muffled voice, “We need him unconscious or half dead - I don’t  _ care  _ \- we don’t have nearly enough information on him! We are already in hot water not being able to find Lee Know - so help me, if there is so much as a coffee stain on your track record I’ll throw you to the wolves myself.”

Jeongin and Seungmin sit there frozen for a minute, listening to nothing but the retreating steps and voices of the Director and who must’ve been the Captain of the guard. Slowly Jeongin tries reteaching himself how to breathe, focusing on calming his breaths as the danger retreats. 

“Felix took out three guards?” asks Jeongin, turning toward Seungmin with wide eyes. 

Seungmin furrows his eyebrows before replying haltingly, “No - it couldn’t have been him - I swear he only managed to take out one. I don’t - I don’t remember much after he was subdued, though, I’m not sure why.”

“Probably the sedative,” mutters Jeongin, “It’s quite potent. But let’s say that Felix didn’t take down three highly trained men, then who did?  _ You _ ?”

“It couldn’t have been me,” says Seungmin, “I’m not a mutant.” 

Jeongin raises an eyebrow, saying, “Then why are you still here?”

“I could ask you the same thing! I think I know - or saw - too much. Today was only my first day of interviews and I think the Director deemed me a threat for what I saw when Felix…”

The younger re-adjusts, shivering in the cold, wishing that he hadn’t lost his shirt. He shrugs but refrains from saying much more on the subject, watching as the lights in the cell go out fully - from their dim status of day to pitch dark. Jeongin spent little time in Quarantine, getting startled and ending up five sets of cells away often enough that the guards had enough of deciding whether to reprimand him - only for him to slip their punishments. In the quiet it’s easy to hear that Seungmin is either panicking or crying - both would not be unreasonable. So Jeongin starts singing to himself quietly nervously, trying to calm his fears with an old song he used to listen to on his way to school. Much to his surprise Seungmin begins singing along.

They sit in the dark, singing to one another quietly even in spite of their fears of the guards coming back. As they both regain their bearings, Jeongin scoots a little closer, fumbling in the dark as he whispers, “So I guess we’re stuck together.”

Seungmin laughs weakly as he replies, “Guess so.”

“My name is Yang Jeongin.”

“Kim Seungmin.” 

  
  


**[After]**

“What are you doing?” shrieks Jeongin, fighting against Seungmin and Felix holding both of his arms, restraining him from following Chan. Hyunjin is a step behind them, ready to intervene if he feels necessary - but wary to do so, the last thing they need is more attention on their group. He can feel the warmth from Felix’s fingers on his own clammy skin, but registers little else as the youngest pushes forward again. Changbin and Jisung are frozen to the side, locked in an invisible conversation - and Jeongin isn’t sure if they’re actually using Jisung’s telepathy or if they are just that in tune with one another - before turning back to the remaining seven of their group. 

“Let me go!” the youngest cries, tears trickling down his face as he reaches forward, as if to lend a helping hand to their leader. Felix is saying something but with all of the blood rushing in his ears, it falls on deaf ears. Jeongin concentrates and teleports a few feet away, running as fast as he can, teleporting again further, closer while dodging onlookers and bystanders as he fights his way to the front. Yet he already knows that he’s too late. He’s grabbed once again, first by Seungmin then Jisung who is quick to come to the other’s aid; Jeongin slumps down in the olders’ arms, the fight draining out of him. He bites his lip as the tears keep slipping down his face, still occasionally reaching and trying to make one last jump.

“Chan said we have to go,” Seungmin says gently.

“We can’t leave them! They shouldn’t have to pay for something that’s not their fault, it’s yours,” Jeongin spits, but regrets it the moment it leaves his lips, before he even sees Seungmin’s face fall. Jisung sighs, looking down the hallway as if to see Chan’s retreating figure. He’s long gone from view - even Jeonginnie’s teleporting wasn’t quite fast enough to make it onto the lift in time.

“You don’t mean that. He doesn’t mean that,” says Jisung, pulling the two toward the other members, ushering them back through the crowd in the hopes that they can still slip away. The crowd is starting to thin and they’ll have to move fast if they want to make up for lost time. Jisung meets eyes with Changbin and Minho, nodding once before switching out for their current oldest member, the absence of Woojin and Chan never so clearly felt. 

“Be quick, we won’t come back for you,” says Minho coldly, but Jisung knows his tone is more false bravado than anything. When they embrace, quickly so as to not let the other remaining members know what's going on, he can feel the older shaking. He whispers, so quietly Jisung has to strain to hear it, “Please be careful. Take care of yourselves.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised myself I would have a steady upload schedule, but here I am uploading after not even a week has passed after sprint writing an additional 8k.
> 
> So I guess you could say I am a little excited.
> 
> I hope I am doing justice describing how their powers work but still leaving some intrigue. Let me know if you need any visuals or guidelines into users of the powers in popular culture such as movies, TV shows, or comics because I have loved superheroes for a long time. I have clips for almost every character's powers.
> 
> Thank you all for your support for this work and leaving kudos on the last chapter. I hope you are all doing well and taking care of yourselves.


	3. they came, catch my back (must never get caught)

Changbin is beginning to think that being let out of his private torture cell was a new form of torture all its own - from being unable to sleep with the noises, the endless grating, crawling noises that wormed their way under his skin (screams, bangs, breathing) - to being in highly populated places. He hasn’t had to cope with this in almost two years, unable to focus his thoughts or hearing on one thing in particular after months of stale silence. 

So he sits isolated in a busy cafeteria, flinching at loud noises and trying not to tap into his power and get himself sent back to that godforsaken anechoic chamber.  _ This is better _ , he tells himself,  _ it will get better _ . It was fine when talking to Seungmin - no one was around and he could focus on one person, but in a crowd of so many people there are so many sounds screaming in his ears.

“You’ve broken your chopsticks,” says a voice next to him, but Changbin barely pays attention over the fact that his heart had stopped at the unexpected presence. He hadn’t heard anything, the other just appearing and eating over half of his meal - was Changbin losing his mind? “It’s quite impressive, considering this is pretty sturdy metal.”

The other pauses for a minute before smiling good naturedly, “You’d better make sure that the guards don’t see you’ve managed to break them or next we’ll get our eating utensils taken away because it’s a risk to the others. Probably even the spoons.”

He taps his own chopsticks against his bowl meaningfully before setting them down. Changbin finally looks up, hand still placed over his heart, feeling his pulse descend. The other boy has short black hair that’s ever so slightly choppy and uneven, indicating he had needed to cut it himself. Changbin’s own hair is getting longer in the back as he’d lacked a mirror (or sharp instruments) to cut it for a while. The other still dons a happy smile and large, but not necessarily chubby, cheeks.

“I think they make me look like a squirrel,” replies the other before taking another bite of rice. 

“What?”

“My cheeks,” he clarifies, “You were thinking about them. It’s okay, my friends agree with me.”

Changbin’s own face flushes deeply and he once again wishes that he was back in his private room. Perhaps just talking to Woojin was not nearly enough practice to be dealing with this conversation. They fall into silence for a while, the unnamed newcomer still eating slowly and the older of the two unable to figure out why this stranger was talking to him. After it was clear that his silence won’t force the other to leave, he bites the bullet.

“Maybe they’re talking about your energy levels,” says Changbin quietly. The other’s eyebrows shoot up before he laughs a little, rubbing a hand under his chin thoughtfully while nodding before opening his mouth to add something else. 

“I don’t think it’s edible either,” says the other, poking at the meat substitute that’s been put on their trays for lunch. It’s been a few days since their last conversation, and Changbin had figured the younger realized that this wasn’t worth his time. Yet once again the newcomer flops down without bothering to introduce himself, setting his tray down with a hard smack and failing to start a conversation like a normal person.

Perhaps all telepaths are like this. Maybe this one is just special.

Needless to say, they fall into a gentle silence as Changbin continues scribbling on his napkin with a leaky ballpoint pen he snagged from a guard earlier in the day when avoiding returning to his cell. Jisung continues poking at the meat, wondering if it would make a decent projectile at the girl from two sections over who’s onto their Minho-secret and threatening to rat them out. He glances back at Changbin who has started humming under his breath - the air tensing with potential energy.

It’s not necessarily to use his powers, Jisung thinks, but rather for the craft. Still - if this is freestyle rap, it needs less thinking and more feeling. He tells the other so, grabbing the pen and making a few small notes and suggestions for comparison on his own napkin. Jisung frowns, not really thinking his wording conveys what he knows is on the tip of his tongue but admits to himself that he is more of a do-er rather than a thinker.

“I don’t know what beat you have in mind, but if you are stuck on the part you could do something unexpected, like a tonal shift,” says Jisung, pushing both the napkin and pen across the table. “I’d phrase it this way…”

Changbin gives him a look before asking, “Well what beat would you use?”

“Oh, maybe something like…”

He returns the next day still, sliding into the seat across from Changbin, this time bringing his roommate, a tall boy with bleached hair that’s horribly grown at the roots and a kind smile. He jerks his head at the older boy, stating that he also had some possible pointers for Changbin’s lyrics that he happens to be struggling with. As well as making a show citing said roommate, who thought both Chan and Jisung would benefit from putting themselves out there and testing their limits. Well, specifically Jisung says, “It’s either that or you are of cosmic importance which, considering Chan, you might be. But that’s neither here nor there.” 

“I’m Chan, by the way,” says the third member of their trio, “And because I’m guessing he didn’t introduce himself, that’s Jisung.”

And slowly, Changbin finds himself starting to smile. 

xxx

“Wait so you had -  _ have _ ? - a cell in the North Wing?” asks Minho, a few weeks later when Chan and Jisung have deemed Changbin trustworthy (or perhaps they’ve admitted to themselves they are horrible liars).

Jisung and Chan look up from their cards - both having put substantially more money in the center of the table than the other two. The deck has been stacked against Minho and Changbin for since the beginning, playing against a telepath and someone with increasing reliability in precognition is a bad omen from the start, not to mention they are notorious at calling both his and Minho’s bluff. Changbin, personally, suspects foul play but his composure has not broken. 

“Yes,” replies Changbin, placing his hand down, “Full house, by the way. It’s 567 steps from the final checkpoint to enter the rest of the Facility. So you take a right out of the room, then a left, another left, hang a right after walking down the long hallway, and then one more left, I think. I only went that far away from my room a handful of times.”

“That’s sort of nearby, as far as private rooms are concerned. My, um, special room is one of the closest to the private rooms. I have four of a kind,” says Jisung, pulling the rest of the pile toward him as Chan begins to reshuffle the cards, ignoring Minho’s huffing. 

“Weren’t you put into Quarantine?” asks Chan, leaning forward to set the deck in the center of their tight circle in their cell. Changbin had an uncanny talent for evading guards, head usually titled just-so when he was listening. 

The other shook his head, “No, I was put into my cell from the start. They figured that it would be a bust for me to be in Quarantine with all of the noises. I would’ve escaped. Or killed us all.”

Minho shoots him a glance as he wearily matches Jisung’s gleeful bet, stating, “What’s changed? Also it’s impressive you managed to memorize your route out of the North Wing.”

Changbin shrugged with a smile, raising the bet as Minho groans quietly, “Maybe they just don’t care anymore. Better to have someone to pin the blame on.”

He pauses for a moment, holding his cards close to his chest before continuing, “I had help, too, to try and memorize the amount of steps and direction out of North Wing. I was...I was usually...I had...um, restraints...my friend went in and out of both places often.”

“I’m all in,” mutters Chan, pushing his winnings toward the center of the game. He had a few spare won swiped from guards or earned from other inmates, two books, and three contraband snacks. Changbin was in awe that the older has managed to procure so much in such a short time but he always has two things going for him: he’s kind and lucky. 

Jisung narrows his eyes at Chan before folding and turning back to the conversation, “Your friend would help you try and memorize the layout?”

Changbin nods, shifting uneasily, “We spent a lot of time together, he was helping stitch me up from a deep stomach wound. He knows his way around better than most of the guards, because of what the officers have him do to other inmates.” 

Minho, suffering as Chan collects the entire pool, throws his cards down. “Half of the torture for residents in the North Wing is inflicted on other inmates, and almost all of their rooms and torture is made for long term psychological damage.”

“Blinded twenty four seven, immobilizing restraints, entirely isolated, sometimes the only social interaction would be forcing an inmate to harm one of their peers. Most of their powers are ones the Director is interested in - so she wants them broken.” 

It’s a fact. Changbin knows this is a fact, knows this is a fact that the others need to know but he can’t stop himself from clamping his hands over his ears at the moment. He finds himself back in that room, just like during his conversation with Seungmin, unable to shake the spectre of the isolation chamber.  _ You’re not there, you’re not alone, you can see, you can hear _

Jisung glances at Changbin as the other flinches visibly, blinking hard and covering his ears. In a moment he stops, hands shaking before both hands are over his ears again. He trembles, face paling slightly as he blinks hard again, tears beading in his eyes before bringing his hands up to his mouth again, breathing on them and rubbing them together. He bites down on his thumb once - hard enough to bruise. The older scarcely seems aware of the eyes watching him as he keeps his eyes trained on the lights above him, humming lightly to himself. His teeth are chattering even as he’s sweating bullets.

Jisung places a hand on the other’s knee, scooting closer and easing his hands out of harm’s way as the other’s shaking continues. Chan grabs his book, placing it in Changbin’s hands for another sensory stimulus. It’s not the first panic attack they’ve dealt with, but it is by far the worst one that Changbin has publicly weathered.

Chan looks back to Minho, reluctant to draw his worried gaze away from Changbin, “How so? How do  _ you  _ know that, weren’t you in records?”

Jisung meets Minho’s eyes for a moment, quick enough for the untrained eye to miss the interaction or dismiss it as a fluke. The older of the two swallows as he wrings his hands together for a moment before continuing, “I wasn’t always in records. Up until the last six months, I was doing my best to work my way up, gather evidence, and help inmates while I was at it, and I...I lost someone. So I went to another inmate for help finding him.” 

“Did you? Help him?” asks Changbin quietly, eating some of the chips that Chan offered. The older has Changbin’s hand in his lap as he gently ties a piece of spare cloth around it - even if the skin wasn’t broken, he’d rather be safe than sorry. 

Minho’s face crumples as he says quietly, “Not as much as I should’ve.” 

xxx

Over the next few weeks, Minho becomes acutely aware of a heavy gaze settled on his back. He ignores it. Changbin continues to brim with unspoken curiosity, eyes full of light and questions that he fights back in order to protect his friend. Trust is slow to grow - not when Changbin knows that Minho was an officer in the Facility, he’d be surprised if Changbin ever had even a degree of faith in the older. Minho wouldn’t blame him either.

Many guards or officers might toy with the inmates, promising to reward their comrades for their actions only to burn them and gain the promotion. Thinking of the things that he showed - regardless of their truth - made his skin crawl, thinking of how easy it might’ve been to lose himself to that desire for power. He has never wanted anything but the simple life he mentioned to Hyunjin.

Were his cats okay? He asked the next door neighbor to look after them for the time being, but his assets would either run out, his apartment lease would end, or the neighbor might grow tired of caring for his fussy cat children. 

In the mindless hours of waiting for the next torture session or waiting for one of his friends - because that’s what they are, right? - sessions to end, Minho thinks of Woojin. Wonders if Woojin is the one who worked so hard to help Changbin learn his way around, even knowing that Minho must’ve failed so there’s no reason to know the way out of the North Wing. His ability to hope, to continue pushing forward in spite of all of the obstacles in his way was one of the reasons Minho admired Woojin, thought that they might be better off if their positions are switched. 

But how the tables have turned on him now. Minho’s illusions don’t have mass, they’re nothing but thin air when touched, but if he crafts an image close to his skin and keeps it there - it’s pretty damn convincing. So he subs in for Chan and, more importantly, Jisung. 

The pain from the powerful, potent electricity is worth it when he sees the younger crack a smile or burst out into a laugh. It’s not all of the time, but subbing in is the most Minho can do to help support the other two at this time. Even taking up to six sessions for the other is the longest break Jisung has had in a long while, enough for some of his burns to begin to heal. The sessions are brutal, taxing down to the bone and Minho forces himself to keep up his illusion and protect Jisung (and himself, to an extent). Still, even after getting back to the cell, he forces himself to his feet in an attempt to teach the other three basic self defense and martial arts. To his credit, Minho does his best - he has good reflexes from a dance background, but he’s no fighter - his powers are entirely defensive and midirectional. 

He’s currently walking down the hallway at the start of another cycle, Jisung having taken two more sessions, before Minho couldn’t stand it and demanded to sub in. Chan looked at him like he’s lost his mind, eyes concerned for Minho’s sanity but it’s not a superiority complex or a hero complex. Maybe it’s guilt. Just like the guilt over Hyunjin, that someone who’s made of light and happiness should have to endure this everyday. Maybe it’s the fact that, as the sessions continue, he has a creeping suspicion he knows what room is opposite Jisung’s torture chamber - so really, this  _ is  _ all his fault.

If he also happens to also be thinking of a way to free Hyunjin and stop Jisung’s torture, well then he’s just that efficient at multitasking.

Changbin doesn’t have sessions often, hands shaking with the foundation of the building more often than not. Oscillation between total silence and the constant din of torture is sufficent to keep him weary, nerves frayed and body under constant stress. Yet he has a session today as they walk down the hallway together, Changbin on a disguised Minho’s right - being ushered into the North Wing never gets easier as cement fills his stomach.

And then - there’s a shout. Their guards are on high alert, one of the pair pins them to the wall as the other rushes off into the distance. In the midst of it all, an inmate lays curled up on the floor, face ashy and vacant as he’s surrounded by Facility personnel. Next to him stands a familiar face, brows set with translucent, near-invisible strings like magician’s thread on the tips of his fingers but Minho knows they can be sharper than swords. It’s a vicious fight, especially considering how kind and gentle Woojin is as a person. He lashes out, strings flashing, trying desperately to keep the oncoming guards away from the unmoving patient lying on the ground, but as talented as Woojin is, even he is not a one-man army. When his screams echo throughout the usually silent North Wing - it brings a haunting chill to the once silent area and a bad omen for the future of the Facility. They continue ringing out from almost every angle, the sound so all encompassing it’s hard to discern a clear pinpoint.

Changbin bites his lip as the sound waves wash over him; the guard lashes out, pushing against his throat, causing the young man to flinch and cry out a little. He claws at his throat as the guard pushes down harder, anticipating backlash from the physically smaller inmate. In the process, what little control Changbin had over the mounting soundwave pressure is gone, concussive, uncontrolled, raw energy cascading out of its amplifier. Minho watches in both a sick sense of fascination and horror as the guard is hurled across the hallway into the opposite wall with a sick crunch in his spine on impact, unable to stay on his feet or keep his baton on Changbin’s throat with the force of the blast - it continues ringing out, high pitched tones that scream in one’s ears. Minho’s own vision is starting to waver, things seeming unreal as his world tips and blurs - the liquids in his ears must be unsettled as the shrill tone continues.

There are deep fractures starting to appear in the wall and the guard groans in pain, clutching at his chest and stomach. Yet Minho - even if he’s technically behind Changbin and not feeling the same extent of power - is on the ground, dry heaving and unable to move a muscle to grab the other man much less move to aid Woojin. The oldest has gone silent, chest heaving but sounding heavy with a wheeze of pain on each inhale - Changbin is slowly recovering in the meantime, assault of his powers easing as Woojin’s silence is drawn out.

Yet the impenetrable silence of the North Wing has been ruptured. Screams and moans from inmates, constant banging on the walls in addition the retaliation from the guards is a symphony of dissonant chaos. Minho is positive that he’s lost control of his own powers and, should this situation get any more out of hand, that they’re running on borrowed time. If the Director should come sauntering down this hallway - well death on sight or a swift execution might be a mercy. 

“Don’t suppose you know the Puppetmaster, too?” he asks Changbin weakly, hauling himself up onto the wall. He helps Changbin sit up, sapping nearly all of his strength to do so. He rearticulates his statement with a jerk of his head toward Woojin. Such simple motions have his vision blurring, his own reality tilting on its axis and meager stomach contents threatening an encore. 

“Woojinnie-hyung? Didn’t...know he’s called...that,” heaves Changbin, sweat pouring down his face. His skin is feverish and his pulse is too fast, but he’s alive and that’s more than enough for Minho to work with. He’s lying to himself and he knows it, officers arriving on site are giving him strange looks, murmuring to one another -  _ isn’t he familiar looking? Couldn’t be, that traitor _

Out of the corner of his eyes, Minho sees the lions lick their lips at their injured prey. Large cats playing with mice trapped in a maze - they’ll win every time. Changbin is still in rough shape, head nodding forward as he continues trembling in the aftermath of aggressive energy output; Minho feels a crushing weight on his chest, wondering if the other managed to pickle his organs.

“Binnie, we have to go,” says Minho, weakly swatting at the other man. “This isn’t the time to be sleeping. If we stay we’ll get killed.”

Changbin, to his credit, nods and tries to push himself up to a standing position only for his legs to crumple under him. He stands again, lending a hand to Minho and plastering himself against the wall, leaning on it fully for the support to keep him upright. The officers are still watching bemusedly from a distance, watching as the baby deer attempt to walk for the first time. Minho groans, pulling Changbin onto his back and hurrying over to Woojin. 

The guards attacking the pair on the ground have long since left for greener pastures, content to let the vultures prey on the carcasses left. Woojin’s face is bruised and his breathing is...not good. His comrade, the one he was protecting, is sitting up and rubbing at his face. He blinks and looks around, registering Minho and Changbin and throws himself in front of Woojin. Minho glances over his shoulder to find the guards blocking the only way to the main corridor - the only way into the public rooms of the Facility. 

“We have to go,” says Minho, “Hurry, grab Woojin and follow me.” 

The other hesitates, glancing at the guards and back to an impatient Minho. There are two options: throw himself at the guards or give blind trust to a stranger while carrying someone he’s spoken to maybe once. Still, a later death still grants him a few more minutes to figure out what’s going on. 

The decision was made before it was even a question. With some assistance - and muffled groaning from both - Woojin is placed on the newcomer’s back. A cruel part of Minho wonders if he would have better luck pushing this guy to the wolves and grabbing his allies in an attempt to make a run for it. 

Woojin is dead weight and heavy; the duo hobble along the hallway, but searching for what, he isn’t sure. The guards are starting to grow impatient waiting for them to give up their crusade - starting to push forward past their self-imposed barrier. 

“Shit,” curses Minho, breaking off into a run, careful not to jostle Changbin too much. He pauses, only hearing one pair of footsteps and sees the other a few meters behind, his eyes are low as he surveys the officers beginning to swarm. They smell blood in the water. “We have to go.” 

It’s stunning, the lengths the guards are willing to go to toy with their prey, so caught up in their own worlds that they think they’re helpless. Nevertheless as Minho leads on, their prey gets further away, taking steady directions rather than running around like chickens with their heads chopped off. Their distance between the approaching guards is about six rooms and narrowing. The other inmate stops again, adjusting Woojin on his back as he observes their pursuers out of the corner of his eye.

_ What had he done before? What caused the situation that Woojin was trying to rescue him from?  _ A tug on his gut and brimming warmth on his hands precedes the flare of rose colored light as the barriers go up. It’s like a shield from a sci-fi movie, hexagonal and linking to itself from corner to corner across the hallway. The inmate's eyes widen and he turns on his heel, hurriedly chasing after Minho.

In spite of his efforts - his concentration breaks when he stumbles further down the hallway. In spite of the marked progress they have made, it is not enough to evade the guards indefinitely. With Woojin on his back, the inmate privately thinks that they aren’t going to get very far at all. The North Wing is not as much of a labyrinth as Quarantine, but there are still numerous deadends. Namely the rooms, where this stranger seems to be leading them. 

He obviously knows where he’s going, taking measured steps and turning down specific hallways as if he had done it a thousand times. And, if he’s being honest with himself, that terrifies Felix the most.

xxx

“I think I can teleport us out of this cell,” says Jeongin, sounding about as confident as he looks. “I’ve never done it with another person, but it shouldn’t be that different other than the energy necessary to complete the jump.”

Seungmin raises an eyebrow, “I was skeptical when you said it would have to be a blind jump, but if you’ve never brought another person with you? I’ll pass.” 

It’s been less than forty-eight hours since Jeongin had found himself stuck in the cell with Seungmin, but there’s still comparatively few guards stalking about the halls compared to his own experience in Quarantine that the younger knows this golden opportunity cannot be missed. If Quarantine is so unsupervised, there’s no telling what chaos lies on the upper floors - it’s a perfect ruse to find their way up and out. 

Maybe out of the Facility for good.

Illegal detention of the prosecutor himself would be a great way to make a case against the happenings of the Facility. Still, Jeongin has private worries about why the Director chose to toss Seungmin down into the labyrinth rather than just kill the other - if she’s so concerned about protecting the integrity of her less than ethical operations, then shouldn’t she just have killed him? Wouldn’t that keep this a secret a little longer, if Seungmin goes missing regardless?

It’s far more dangerous for the Director to have noticed and taken an interest in Seungmin than for him to be dead. Death is a mercy when one hears the whispers about what the Director does. 

“I’m sure that I can get us out and how will I know if I never try, Seungmin-hyung?” asks Jeongin with a smile, adding just the right amount of cheek to it in an attempt to sway the older.

“I am sure you can, but I’m not going to be your lab rat, Jeonginnie,” says Seungmin, voice laced with false sweetness. Jeongin sighs, stretching out on the floor, knowing it was a long shot but not knowing what else to do - when the guards are off their regular shifts, Jeongin won’t be able to leave, if the guards realize that Seungmin isn’t a mutant they’ll be sitting ducks to their preferential treatment. 

Jeongin knows he should leave. The guards love to mess with those in individual cells, both in Quarantine and in the North Wing; it’s what they do with their minds polluted with their own sense of power and authority. So, if Seungmin doesn’t want to leave with Jeongin, the younger should teleport out and leave Seungmin to his own devices. It’s what anyone else might do in this situation, but something still tugs him back, urging him to stick close to Seungmin. 

Maybe he was lonelier than he thought. 

The jingle of keys signaling the door unlocking is when everything changes. Jeongin doesn’t have advanced hearing, but he does like music and being in the Facility being aware of the slightest noise can turn the tables in one’s favor. Such as the click of a gun’s safety being taken off, just before the keys jingle. 

Jeongin dashes forward, tackling Seungmin - not thinking of any potential consequences of his actions as the door opens. They lead with the gun, but Jeongin is faster - the pair disappearing behind the invaders in a puff of smoke. Seungmin groans, face turning green as they reappear, the younger doing his best to try and subdue their would-be assailants. 

One quick teleport and he’s snatched the gun away, kicking the guard hard in the shins. Another jump followed by a quick hit to the side of the head with the end of the gun. He pops in and out, fading from view only to strike quickly and disappear once more. Seungmin watches as the younger takes down the small squad of guards.

After walking unsteadily away from the bodies, Jeongin flashes a smile and a thumbs up before he sways on his feet and sinks to the ground. Seungmin rushes forward, trying to keep the younger from hitting the ground hard and hurting himself further after over-exerting himself taking out the four guards and making a jump while carrying Seungmin. He’s barely awake and Seungmin knows it’s time that he helps the other. 

He roots through the official’s pockets, grabbing different forms of identification and gate passes. In the gunman’s breast pocket there’s a few crumpled up papers - that unfolded display a few different faces on them, one of whom is Seungmin. After hours of volunteering and photocopying important documents after document to build case file evidence, Seungmin thinks he can recognize a photocopy when he sees one. They appear to be copies of their main page of a patient profile, noting name, height, weight, and abilities. His paper is torn in half, the bottom missing and with a sinking feeling, Seungmin thinks it feels a little convenient. He’s been detained, given a serial code instead of a name, but the bottom half of his file is missing. The other two papers also appear to be files on different inmates, but only one of them is recognizable.  _ Felix.  _

The notes on Felix’s powers are disjointed at best. Still, Seungmin pockets the information, tucking it into the waistband of his white Facility-issued uniform. Voices echo down the hallway and, panicking, Seungmin shoves the four guards into his cell, dragging Jeongin by the collar as he closes the door, leaving it open by a hair.

One of the men stirs as Jeongin is blinking into awareness, stalking toward Seungmin who startles backward, tripping over his feet. Even as the world is fuzzy, there are some things that even poor consciousness cannot fake. One such thing is Seungmin being kicked, forced onto his stomach with his head pressed down and the lights exploding, sparks raining down onto the guards. His friend flips over, pushing the man who flies off, as if he was propelled on ropes.

“Jeongin, help me take the clothes off this guy and get changed,” hisses Seungmin under his breath, hurrying to grab the items he collected. Jeongin glances at him, but the older doesn’t seem to think anything is different -  _ how can he not realize what he did?  _

The younger mutant, still tired, mutters, “That’s an invasion of privacy. I expected better from you, hyung.” 

He still helps the other, putting on the general guard uniform and clipping the identification badge onto his front. These badges in particular lack photos to protect the rights’ of the guards, so it’s almost laughably easy to swap their own clothes as inmates for a persona of authority. The execution squads never have a lot of identifying information on them for liability reasons. Yet their youthful faces and palpable nervousness is a dead giveaway to anyone that looks at the pair a little too closely. 

Jeongin looks at the information Seungmin snatched off the guards’ persons, humming, “Yeah. It’s what I thought - a quiet elimination. You are probably a target because you’re a threat. Can’t imagine why though.”

But he can. 

Because of what Seungmin did. It’s clearer than ever to Jeongin that the older is also a mutant, but he knows that the other’s denial is all-encompassing. His own denial - refusal? - of his nature might be what has kept him alive for so long, especially if his powers keep being used such as this. Yet with such a noticeable power, how has Seungmin not noticed what he’s doing? It seems so intentional and yet…

They walk through the hallways of the Facility at a measured pace, swiping their badges for elevator access. Jeongin doesn’t dare to breathe until he’s on the main floor, the doors finally dinging open as the pair walk out. The dust settles, but before they can relax - it’s clear that the upper floors are in a worse state than either boy had anticipated. The alarms are blaring, a constant repetition of red flashing lights, sirens, and the same announcement repeated until it's enough to make one’s ears bleed. Seungmin looks toward the exit, the pair taking a slow turn about the hallway. The front door is all but barricaded shut with how many guards are posted there, at least three rows thick, and the metal gates are down. Seungmin almost takes a step into view but Jeongin grabs his arm, leading him toward the direction of his isolated cell block. 

“We must be on lockdown,” explains Jeongin, “There’s no way we can get through that today.” 

He grabs the other by the hand, pushing deeper and deeper into the Facility, taking off at a sprint, ducking and weaving the small pockets of guards. The chaos is only growing, so many inmates are out of their cells, some lost and confused - others facing off against the guards; the noises ring in Seungmin’s ears and he tries his best not to look. 

The first time, he had jerked over to the side, ready to leap to the other’s aid, but Jeongin steered him away, saying, “We’ll blow our own cover and make it worse for them. Constant interrogation, even they don’t even know our names. It’s better to stay to the sidelines for the moment.” 

They reach a dead end and Jeongin stops, no, freezes. His eyes are wide, jaw open as he looks around, touching the dense metal wall. He paces back and forth, once teleporting to the other side of the wall - Seungmin hears a muffled shout - and back in an instant. The younger’s chest is heaving and his appearance is disheveled, stolen uniform torn on the sleeves and chest. 

“Are we lost?” asks Seungmin, watching as Jeongin touches the wall once more. 

“No, no, I know this part of the Facility better than most. No one can catch me, so no one stops me when I’m walking around. It’s... _ gone _ . The entire cell block has been levelled. I mean, it’s been empty for weeks - months, maybe - but I didn’t…”

Maybe Jeongin’s mutation was luck. He certainly had the devil’s luck when it came to evading most things such as this, avoiding the liquidation and now demolition of his cellblock. Then again, Seungmin had seen the other teleport into a wall and nearly break his nose - they’ve known each other less than four days. That says something about the younger. He was always a little fox like - maybe Jeongin is like a gumiho, the nine-tailed fox that according to some is malevolent and violent, but an auspicious sign to others. 

Seungmin can’t blame the other. His own family was a little like that. 

“I don’t know where we should go now, I was so sure,” trails off Jeongin. “But it’s gone. It wasn’t much but it was familiar. It’s gone.” 

Over two and a half years in that cell. His careful tallies and stash of things that made him smile - obliterated in the blink of an eye. His makeshift home was gone in less than four days since he had gotten lost. The only thing that remained was rubble as they carved away the walls and floor to connect to a part of the basement. Why? He hadn’t bothered staying to look, scrambling for purchase and tearing his shirt as he tried to catch himself. One more blind jump - an additional risk of harm due to his sheer exhaustion - and Jeongin slams into the floor next to Seungmin, sliding across the tile. 

There are hurried footsteps approaching and Jeongin wonders if his luck has run out, costing both himself and Seungmin everything. He grabs Seungmin’s hand once more, this time for comfort, hoping that the older won’t think anything of it as he turns toward the oncoming person. He could make one more jump with the two of them, surely. One more jump just to get Seungmin out of harm's way. 

Jeongin doesn’t owe anyone anything. He was fine being on his own, but as he’s come to admit, maybe he isn’t very good at that. 

xxx

Chan has been remembering his visions with increasing accuracy as his stay in the Facility grows ever longer. However, this also comes at the expense of experiencing higher frequency of his precognition. Still, even knowing what might happen doesn’t save him from staying up all hours of the night, mind racing at a thousand kilometres an hour. 

“Chan-hyung?” whispers Jisung from where he’s curled next to him in the bed, “Minho-hyung didn’t come back. Binnie didn’t visit either. I’m worried.”

It’s one of those bad days when Jisung struggles to cope being in the hallway and the chaos from earlier both contributing to his own suffering and worry for their friends. It’s grown quiet now, but the news of their friends doubly so. Jisung tries not to blame himself, crawling into Chan’s bed in the hopes that the other’s reassuring presence will help soothe the storm in his mind.

Regardless of the ghosts in Minho’s past and present, he insisted that he could take on Jisung’s session that day after the younger’s bad episode in the morning. Seizing panic in the hallway and nonverbal for hours afterward, unable to form a coherent thought or do more than focus on his breathing - Minho’s mind was made up. He pushed Jisung back into the cell and glamored himself, easily saddling up next to the impatient guards with an easy smile. 

“I know, I’m worried too,” admits Chan quietly. “But we know they’re alright because we’re okay for the moment.”

Jisung, for all that he can’t always control his powers, wants to know what the other is thinking. Wants to cross the barrier and know if the older really believes what he’s saying or not. He hopes that Chan does because one of them needs to have faith in something. The most frustrating thing, that they both get upset with themselves, is that they can find out in an instant - Jisung stretching his mind out to find the others, Chan looking forward in time. But that sort of control requires holding smoke.

“I hate to ask this, but...would...would you try looking?” asks Jisung.

Chan sits up, hair curly and sticking out in all directions. His dark circles contrast his skin in the low light coming from the hallway as he turns to face Jisung more directly. He exhales slowly, the air rushing out of him sounds so loud in the tense silence. Still he turns and, if Jisung squints, he thinks he can see the older smile as he nods. 

They light a candle, if nothing for a sense of normalcy. 

“This feels like a seance, that we’re communing with the dead,” Jisung says lightly. “Put on this cloak and join my cult.” 

They join hands, sitting on opposite sides of the candle and laugh to themselves, quietly so as to not get caught. They're tucked behind the bunk beds, the small candle casting little light over their actions - if their luck pans out the guards won't notice it at all.

“It does feel like we’re in secondary school, trying to summon ghosts,” says Chan with a smile. 

And, in spite of their own creeping fears and paranoia, it’s easy. They link hands to ground one another - Jisung more than likely preparing to sneak a peek into Chan’s mind to avoid the lengthy abstract articulation of what he’ll see. 

Seeing the other’s visions is an experience Jisung can barely hope to understand. A strange sense of knowing and unknowing - seeing glimpses of total strangers and implicitly comprehending the context of the situation that they found themselves in. Still, he’s in Chan’s mind and sees almost an afterimage of Chan himself, chasing after the rabbit of a certain thought or memory - getting lost in the depth of the endless possibilities that the future holds. 

It’s a dual image, for Jisung, seeing both what Chan is perceiving in the future as well as the other’s own mind. To the younger, it’s wading through thick fog, each cloud showing a different snapshot from life. Chan pushes through the fog, following a river of possibility completely unrelated to what they originally decided to follow. His eyes are glassy and distant, perhaps even seeing more than Jisung himself is - yet it’s what his power has deemed relevant. Which is to say, not evidently important. Jisung concentrates on the Facility, still holding Chan’s hand tightly, on their friends hoping that will pull the seer out of the feedback loop caused by the sheer quantity of futures that he’s seeing. 

The fog shifts, another path opening and slowly the pair make their way toward the new horizon that’s appeared. They follow a trail that Jisung doesn’t understand, taking random turns in the gray-scale cloudscape depicting both Chan’s mind and powers. Chan stops at a certain, low hanging accumulation of fog. He turns to Jisung for a moment, a moment of clarity as he points at the fog before falling in headfirst, pulling the other with him. 

For a moment, he’s free falling. 

In the next moment, he’s standing next to Changbin covered in blood. He has a splattering across his face and his hands are entirely covered; the other is trembling as he wipes his hands across his white inmate uniform. His torso and body don’t seem hurt, but as Jisung looks further down - he sees himself, with deep lacerations across his chest and neck - it looks like a bullet wound closer to his chest. Changbin is kneeling in a pool of  _ his  _ blood, putting pressure on the wounds even as his hands shake. He’s calling for help, voice hoarse and before Jisung can really comprehend seeing  _ himself  _ lying on the ground half-dead, the image shifts. 

“Another nightmare?” asks Chan, sitting down next to someone who Jisung has never seen before. His hair is longer, recently dyed a golden color. it’s the height of summer, somewhere Jisung is sure he’s never been - they aren’t in Korea nor Malaysia - and the night air is hot and humid even in spite of the welcome wind. The other wears long lounge pants and a sleeveless top and, even in the low light, Jisung can tell that his back and arms are littered in scars, so much that he stumbles backward upon seeing a few of the more gruesome ones. 

Chan’s feet are hanging over the edge of the dock, toes trailing ever so slightly in the water. The other remains curled up, feet tucked under him as he nods in response. 

“I just wonder if we did the right thing.” He lets his head tilt backward, hair fluttering slightly as the breeze picks up. He rubs at his hands, glances at the discarded gloves to his left. The boy leans into Chan for support as the older remains quiet for a moment.

“There was nothing else we could have done, Hyunjin-ah, we did what was right for you and for all of us. We couldn’t have saved everyone, no matter how much we wanted to.” 

The world tilts on its axis as the image shifts back into the Facility and Jisung is rattled by the force of an explosion. Chan seems undisturbed, pushing forward into the image but Jisung is positive that he can feel the force of the blast, feel the heat of the flames singeing his eyebrows. The walls crumble, leaving nothing in the three blocks that have been emptied - J, Y, and P. This was recently, he determines. They could hear blasts recently but this amount of destruction into the intersecting cell blocks. 

Jisung looks down, seeing the bowl shape begin to take form; the excavation of the three blocks allows for the big reveal and expansion of the antique stadium. He can almost see the shadow like images of both past and future fighters coming together, powers clashing as the elite sit up from the higher sections. 

There’s a cry to his left, where Chan’s attention has been concentrated. The images blurs and they’re just outside of the old blocks as two inmates are pinned against the steel doors by oncoming guards. The guards are angry, unhinged and all but foaming at the mouth as they snarl at the two inmates, holding each other upright. Chan walks up to the one with purple hair and touches his face slowly, catapulting the two into yet another different setting. 

Jisung wonders if Chan knew they wouldn’t be able to find the right moment in time for their friends. Still as the setting blurs and resets, he gets a clearer image of purple-hair: it’s the attorney from a week ago, the one Changbin refers to as Snail. Sunoo? Sungwon? Seungmin, maybe?

The images flash faster and Jisung can barely keep up with interpreting what he’s seeing - countless papers strewn about the room, random parts of files and a thick computer hard drive sitting in the center of the table. Photos of a younger looking Seungmin (that sounds right) with his mom and sister, grinning as he holds up tickets to a Day6 concert. The video on the hard drive is skipping, the image quality poor - the scene keeps blurring and shifting, guards storming into their house, a tight embrace between Seungmin and his sister - a funeral service where there’s nothing but black as far as the eye can see. 

Jisung sees himself watching the footage, dawning horror on their faces as they pour through similar files, pulling out handfuls of information.  _ This isn’t right, this can’t be, it’s not what  _

Other images of the future are going so fast, the room continues spinning and Jisung wonders if this is like the time he was on the swings at a local fair. He hopes he doesn’t hurl, but the colors fade together. He focuses one last time, holding Chan’s hand so tightly for comfort he thinks he hears a small crack of a fracture in the other’s finger - Changbin and Minho. 

Minho is sprinting down a hallway, hair flying every which way - revealing the panic clear as day on his face. The speed that he’s managing at this point is impressive as he skirts by another guard swiping for him and the man that’s on his back. It’s not Changbin, but rather the pretty man Jisung saw in the other vision. 

The bruising on his face and arms is something ghastly. His lip has split open once more, a scab that hasn’t healed quite right and is bound to scar. His hair is shorter than it was in the vision, but not by much; his eyelashes are long, fluttering every so often. As Minho is heading down the hallway, the thin shirt of the inmate on his back reveals a horrible dotticure of deep, unhealed wounds. In a way, it reminds Jisung of the spinal connection in the old mech suits from Pacific Rim.

In the distance, there’s a massive blast, shaking the foundations of the building, and a few irritated voices, calling, “How stupid are you, Minho? We told you not to do this! It’s suicide! You can’t help him if you’re dead, you dumbass!”

Changbin. One of the voices chastising Minho has to be Changbin, Jisung is sure of it. They’re safe for the moment - vaguely - but it won’t be long before they’re in hot water. Still, regardless of how soon the vision will come to pass it brings Jisung a great sense of relief. For the moment, they are all relatively okay and accounted for. 

Chan pulls them out of the vision with a trembling shudder, gripping hard onto the younger’s hands in an attempt to ground himself. He squints hard, blinking the haze out of his mind before he falls back into a loop. Jisung throws his arms around the other, Chan leaning his head down as he tries to get a grip on his sense of reality. 

“Thank you, Hyung,” says the younger. “We’re okay, and so are Minho and Changbin. Rest now, you’ve done all that you can.” 

Chan shakes his head, mouth opening as he speaks, “We have to help them. It’s important. The visions shouldn’t be that clear. Why were they so clear? I have to...They’re not safe. It’s not safe. We...we have to...have to...The guards…” 

He’s shaking, sweating from the exertion as he babbles nonsensically. Jisung presses two fingers to the other’s temple, forcing suggestion as he says, “Rest.”

xxx

He shouldn’t be doing this, leaving Chan alone in their cell in a dreamless sleep, but the time for wondering if Jisung is doing the right thing has long passed. Technically, he knows that he is doing something right by allowing Chan to rest while he goes to help those who they saw in the premonition - or die trying. He compels - suggests - that the guard passing by should unlock his cell and guide him toward the intersection of blocks J, Y, and P; the cheerful guard, face pinched in its good humor, is all too enthusiastic to acquiesce to his suggestion. Mental suggestion is becoming easier the more Jisung leans into his power, he’s noticed. Tapping into the mechanisms of other minds is no longer a struggle, a muscle that he is starting to refine to perfection - a body honed to withstand a marathon. Still, he hasn’t told anyone how it’s getting harder to filter out the mental noise, how it’s easy to lose himself in hearing the thoughts of others.

Even now, he thinks if he strains he can hear the fear and panic, the calling thoughts of the two voices in the JYP block. The growth of his own abilities has never been this fast. And, if he’s being honest with himself, Jisung is scared. He already doesn’t know how to tune them out, how can he stop this onslaught when looking gets easier by the day?

Jisung suspects Chan already knows this small secret. The caring, intuitive leader of their small group can discern information about their wellbeing that even Jisung, the telepath, isn’t sure that he would’ve picked up on. Chan and Jisung have known each other the longest within their group members, even if that number itself is insignificant in the grand scale of time locked up. Still, Chan is the inmate who has stayed with Jisung the longest during his time at the Facility; he’s the one who fought steadfastly for Jisung and so, in spite of his younger age, Jisung wants to repay him. 

It’s not a debt, but he also doesn’t want to take advantage of the other.

He cares about his friend, deeply, and wants to support the other in whatever way he can. If Chan can put so much on the line for a boy that he barely knew, then Jisung can put his best foot forward to help the seer through his retrieval. If Chan saw them, then they must be important. Afterward, Jisung will take a detour to the North Wing and be alert for any news of their friends. 

Regardless, he pushes forward through the Facility, feeling at ease with the compelled holding him at supposed gunpoint as they walk through the halls. There’s a smaller cluster of guards outside of the JYP blocks, no more than three or four, surrounding the two mutants who hold one another. Much like the glimpse of them from the vision, they support one another heavily, covered in scrapes and bruises - the pallor of their skin is death warmed up. 

It’s not a cut and dry replica of what Chan had foreseen, perhaps because Jisung is here, but the guards are just as unstable as he could recall. Their presence in the moment, their own consciousness, is smaller than Jisung has ever witnessed; pupils blown wide as they snarl at the young men. Weapons are not drawn, rather the scene in front of Jisung is reminiscent of zombie movies, as they lurch forward, swiping at the two inmates. 

They’re movements are stilted and strange, jerking forward but almost unseeing in the way they grab at the inmates. Jisung’s own compelled guard has frozen, looking confused as he turns toward the duo plastered to the corner, pulling out his weapon and raising it. 

“Don’t do that,” says Jisung in a voice that could rival steel. “Put your weapon down,  _ now _ .” 

The guard lowers his gun, brows knitting together as his hand tenses around it. Jisung wishes he had more confidence in his own abilities, but mental suggestion is not infallible. But perhaps this savage rage taking over the guards could be redirected at each other rather than the other mutants. He saddles up to the guard that led him to JYP, concentrating hard as he pushes another suggestion at the man. 

The gun fires, echoing in the enclosed space and making Jisung’s ears ring in protest. He can barely hear, but still manages to pull the two mutants away from the rising chaos as another gun rings out - a different one - there’s a choked cry, but Jisung keeps his gaze steadfastly forward. 

“Come with me,” he says earnestly, beckoning the others to follow. “We don’t have much time, they’ll realize that they aren’t shooting at us soon enough.”

The dark haired one - well, the one who’s not Seungmin - frowns, shaking his head. He’s wringing his hands, chewing on his inner cheek slightly even in spite of how the metal of his braces cuts the tender flesh. He’s leaning hard on Seungmin, barely conscious but gripping his friend’s arm hard, ready to make an escape if the situation calls for it. His eyes are dark, mistrustful but there’s still a spark of hope. Jisung can work with that. 

“How can we trust you?” he asks warily, adjusting himself on Seungmin’s arm. 

Jisung’s own gaze slides to Seungmin who’s gasped quietly in recognition. Jisung turns on his heel, walking away from the chaos toward his own cell. He expects that they’ll manage to figure it out, compelling them to follow him doesn’t sit quite right in his gut. Yet moving speeches are always more Chan’s thing - a natural leader. 

“That’s two down,” comments Jeongin, even as he sighs as the other two mutants begin to turn back toward them. Seungmin is struggling to support all of the youngest’s weight and before he knows it, Jeongin has the two boys on either of his sides. Jisung is supporting the bulk of his weight on his right side, helping him limp along as fast as he can. “But the others don’t seem phased.” 

“Don’t suppose you guys can do anything?”

Two shakes of heads. Jisung has a feeling Seungmin might be lying - given what he saw in the past - but using one’s powers isn’t always for the best, especially if control is lacking. He doesn’t press the issue. Time and place, he supposes. 

“Okay, then we’re running for it. Stay as close as you can,” says Jisung, pulling the dark haired mutant onto his back. His own physique is barely up to the task, muscles protesting at the physical exertion. He, himself, hardly has the physical strength or energy to spare but he pushes forward. It doesn’t hurt that the one his back - Jeongin, a simple scan of his mind reveals - is as light as a feather. 

All is clear for a few corridors, but Jisung’s limbs ache in pain - muscles tense, a horrible pain that he does his best to push out of his mind. If he can regret it now or later, he’ll choose later. They slide around a corner only to hear the crackle of a radio and meet the glinting red eyes of a different guard. Like the others, his pupils are dark and wide, with an absent look in their depths.

Seungmin steadies Jisung as he struggles to stop running with the added weight of Jeongin, hands firm on his side. The two exchange a look as the guards begin to close in once again, looking less civilized than hyenas or vultures ready to descend upon weak, injured prey. Their teeth are certainly reminiscent of fangs in the dim light of the hallway. 

“There’s something...not right about those guards,” says Seungmin. 

“No shit,” mutters Jisung, peering into their minds. It’s filled with nothing but a harsh tone and, if he were to picture it, a blazing red light filling every crevice of their minds. It rewrites an individual’s thoughts, keeping it basic and emotion based. Something is not right with the guards, Seungmin is correct from his observation. 

Jisung does his best to keep the guards at bay, attempting to keep them frozen but the rage clouding their minds overpowers control over rational thought. It’s irrational and that curdles his blood. They’re little more than mindless blood-driven beasts, prowling the halls for blood. Fingers firmly on his temples, Jisung tries and tries again but tapping into his powers has little effect. 

“It’s not working,” he says, panic starting to creep into his voice. “I can’t do anything.”

One of their opponents darts forward, pushing Jisung down, clawing at his outfit and sending Jisung reeling backward unsteadily. There’s a glint in the dark and a knife comes down on Jeongin’s hand halfway up his arm, leaving a long slash of blood as he falls hard onto the ground - forced to let go of the neck. They kick Jisung around like a ragdoll, even in spite of a valiant effort to apply his self defense techniques - their blind strength is simply too great. They turn and Seungmin, from where he’s stumbled, throws his arms up in an effort to protect his face. 

Jisung blinks as the guards fly to the sides, following the movements of Seungmin’s hands. He gapes, mouth hanging open as he stays sprawled on the floor. Still, one of the guard’s head hits the wall hard enough to, literally, knock some sense into him - the return of normal thought appears almost as an open door to Jisung. The telepath takes full control of the situation, reaching into his mind and having the official subdue their opponents, smashing their heads onto the ground. 

Seungmin turns, eyes wild and afraid, as he asks, “You did that right?”

The telepath smiles weakly, “I didn’t throw them against the wall if that’s what you’re talking about. That was you. I did the rest though, yes. Worked much better than I planned.”

Seungmin splutters, face flushing as he shakes his head, “No, no, I’m not a mutant.”  _ As far as I know.  _ “It must’ve been Jeongin.”

“Jeongin barely has the energy to stand, Seungmin, much less throw two grown men against the wall,” says Jisung kindly as he stands up. “And I know that I’m not that powerful to have both telekinesis and telepathy.” 

He turns, smiling sheepishly as he meets Chan’s worried and furious gaze. “Your timing is impeccable as always, Hyung.” 

xxx

“This is a trap,” mutters Woojin, catching his breath as he braces himself on the wall in the North Wing. Night has since fallen and he’s recuperated as best as he can, given that neither Minho nor Changbin are able to carry him - and the stranger he saved is not in the best shape either. They’re around a bend, in between two different squads of guards that lurk around every corner - the numbers seemingly growing exponentially as their already-low energy is fading fast. 

All of the main corridors have been sectioned off by large squadrons of officers and guards, forcing the quartet into dead-end after dead end. The only area that seems unprotected is the one room that always has a legion of guards around it since Minho’s last failed rescue attempt.  _ It can’t be that simple _ , muses Minho,  _ the Director wouldn’t be so straightforward _ . 

“Do we have a choice?” scoffs Changbin, jerking his head toward the last sighting of a guard. “We missed our sessions hours ago. Minho’s illusion broke - we were discovered - it’s already too late to save ourselves from any form of punishment. I say let’s go where they want us, free this inmate, and die in a blaze of glory.”

Changbin’s manipulation of their created soundwaves in addition to Minho’s illusion of an empty corridor are only a temporary fix, it’s not enough to make it through the endless waves of guards. The last time the guards were smart enough to approach when they realized that the group disappeared into almost thin air, soon they’ll realize they’ve pulled a similar trick. Perhaps the illusion already isn’t sufficient even in this moment, it’s just another ploy from the Facility’s authorities to continue toying with the group. Regardless, their borrowed time continues winding down, sand falling through an hourglass. 

Minho sighs, folding arms against his chest, “We don’t have much of a choice, but I can’t ask you all to do this. This is still my fault and I intend on fixing it, but if I do what they want - you have a chance to get out of the North Wing. Security protocol is looser in the central areas.”

“You saved us,” replies Woojin, “Whether you meant to or not, we’re now understood to be in an alliance. They assume - correctly - that we know each other, that we’re a team. If we split up, it won’t matter - they’ll just come after all of us. It’s bigger than you.”

“Then I suppose that settles it, then,” says Felix with a small smile. 

It is, as they suspected it might be, frightfully easy to make their way into Hyunjin’s room. And even after months of seeing the awful state he’s kept in, something heavy still settles in Minho’s stomach at the tall tank filled with instruments of continuous torture. Still, he pushes forward, frantically lifting up the metal braces and chains, ignoring Hyunjin’s cries of pain. He whispers apologies, pressing fleeting kisses to the other’s forehead as he tugs the stranger out of his bindings. Changbin touches his own scarred wrists, the swelling and chafing that he swears he can still feel down in his bones and looks away.

The breath leaves Changbin in a rush, unable to remember how to inhale and exhale for the next several minutes, no matter how hard he tried. Contrary to his own specialized room that was made to make him feel cramped and isolated, walls closing in on him at every turn, this room was the opposite. It was large, imposing enough in its wide, towering walls to dwarf even the tallest of persons; the tiles were red and white, evoking a sick sense of a bloodied chessboard. In the center of it all looms the water tank and the wires that connect to Hyunjin.

He’s shirtless, the lacerations from the metal braces and wires stretching cross his skin as a painter might decorate a canvas. His back, though, is the worst of the lot. The metal plating, smooth metal that follows the curve of his spine that digs straight down to the bone of his vertebrae. In a way, given the damage that the Facility has done to him, Hyunjin is lucky that he’s not paralyzed at this point. 

As Changbin watches, he sees Minho’s fingers slip and slide over the slick surface of Hyunjin’s skin, the younger of the two hissing at the mixture of the salinated water mixing with the blood from the small part of the plating that Minho managed to remove. He thrashes against the older’s grip as Minho does his best to take out more of the plating, convulsing - body starting to twitch from the electrical currents just under his skin. Minho bites back a curse as Hyunjin sobs again, nodding at the apologies whispered against his head, petting the younger’s hair before Minho beckons Woojin over. 

“I can’t get the plating off, Woojin-hyung, can-can you help me?” asks Minho, voice cracking as he still holds a limp Hyunjin draped across his lap. The younger of the two slumps over, not moving, eyes unseeing and for a moment Changbin wonders if he’s even alive. Woojin’s strings flash, pinning Hyunjin down as the older two work together in an attempt to keep separating the young man from the wires and machinery attached to the wall. 

Felix is quiet, staring at the tank with silent tears slipping down his face. 

Changbin turns away from the grisly scene in front of him - horror is much better in fiction - to see the young mutant’s face flushed with tears as he places a hand on the tank. The one-way glass is something terrible, putting Hyunjin’s suffering on clear display - right down to some of the nail marks on the pane. He stays silent, unable to offer any words of comfort to Felix - for all Changbin knows they’ll end up in a similar situation within a week. 

Still, the forlorn look on the younger’s face is out of place against the freckles and mirthful look in his eyes. 

“They really get creative, don’t they?” says Changbin casually, “My own room was soundproofed and I was left deaf and blind. Sometimes for days at a time. I can’t say if it gets easier, yet, but the important thing is that we face it together, right?”

Felix stayed facing forward, but his eyes slid toward the older man. He nodded once, brushing away the tears slipping down his cheeks. Wordlessly, Changbin reached out a hand, tightly clasping Felix’s hand in his own. 

“And, maybe, if you feel comfortable you can talk about your room, too,” says Changbin quietly. 

“You two ready?” asks Woojin warily, adjusting Hyunjin on Minho’s back, securing the younger with swathes of string he conjures out of seemingly nowhere. The younger hisses as the string makes contact with his back, even in spite of the shirt that Minho sacrificed in an effort to protect the wounds. Changbin squeezes Felix’s hand once more, offering a small smile before nodding curtly to the eldest.

Minho sighs, “I’m going to go first. I’ll do my best to get Hyunjin out of here, but I don’t want you putting yourselves at greater risk.” 

Changbin shakes his head, “Don’t be a dumbass, Minho, going alone isn’t just going to get you killed, but also the inmate. Let us help you.”

The older smiles wanly, shrugging easily as he says, “I’m afraid it’s already too late.” As he dissolves into smoke, Changbin thinks his own world might be disintegrating too. Woojin curses colorfully under his breath as he throws the door open, beckoning the two younger mutants to follow into the fray.

The dust barely has time to settle before Changbin decides to go all out, in spite of his own dwindling energy. He concentrates on the gunfire echoing in the hallway, letting the vicious sounds collect in his hands, releasing a concussive blast that rattles the Facility down to its foundations. Changbin gathers the energy again, another blast that sends the guards flying backward, hitting one another and the walls, but he knows he can’t keep this up for long.

Felix falters a little, shaking his head at the swarms of guards waiting for them. He flinches as a guard slaps his baton against his hand, another medical professional approaching with the high-level sedative tucked into his belt loop. “There’s too many. We can’t take on all of them, we’ll be dead before we hit the checkpoint.” 

Changbin screams out, bitterly, “How stupid are you, Minho? We told you not to do this! It’s suicide! You can’t help him if you’re dead, you dumbass!”

“If he’s not dead,” Woojin mutters, slashing outward with his strings at the approaching guards, “I’ll kill them both myself.” 

xxx

They’re handcuffed and in a room that Chan was hoping to never revisit. He doesn’t know exactly what it’s called, but the Orientation room seems to be an apt name for it, given that it was where the Director nearly beat him to pulp upon his first few hours in the Facility. This time, however, there are long tables in front of the chairs to which he’s been chained. 

Jisung sighs to his left, with the other two mutants just beyond him, letting his head hang low for a few moments. He licks his lips before whispering, “I’m sorry, Chan-hyung, I know this is my fault. I just wanted to help.”

Chan shakes his head in response, looking at the younger with a smile, “It’s okay, I don’t blame you. We were ambushed, neither of us saw it coming, which is ironic considering what I can do.” 

If Chan is being honest with himself, given the tight ship that the Facility runs, he’s surprised that they even made it this far without detection given how often their little group bends the rules. Their luck had to run out at some point and the cards were stacked against them; he knew, given his premonition, that it wasn’t long before Minho and the others joined them. Although they had been unharmed at that moment - certainly not as safe as they hoped - Seungmin and Jeongin’s immediate safety took priority. 

They both possess the creeping sense of familiarity of being a few of the mutants that he’s seen in his longer episodic visions. Seungmin’s vision even returned when he was predicting with Jisung - a sure sign that it must be important. Jeongin, however, is just a distant sense of  _ knowing _ , much like when Chan saw Changbin for the first time. Jisung was ecstatic to tell him about someone who’s thoughts flowed like water, carried a gentle tune, rather than stung like hornets - a person he felt so comfortable around. 

So he encouraged Jisung to continue talking to him. And lo and behold, Chan never quite lost the nagging throb in his temple when he’s with Changbin. Eight visions. Eight people. 

Imagine Chan’s surprise when he realized he walked into a room filled with nine chairs, so far each one occupied by someone achingly familiar, a diluted sense of knowing that he always associated with the after-effects of his premonitions. As the rest are dragged in, unconscious and badly wounded, the sense of wonder he finds as he notices that yes, each chair is occupied by one of the individuals from his longer visions.

Chan doesn’t believe in coincidence. Not anymore. 

Jisung closes his eyes, concentrating hard on Minho and Changbin, gently probing at their minds, coaxing them into early wakefulness. It’s not easy, unconscious minds have their own dominion over the sleeping body, but surely if Jisung can be woken by Changbin’s nightmares then probing should work. As he pushes harder, Changbin startles awake, chest heaving as he blinks into focus. 

Changbin rarely sleeps as hard as he should, too easily disturbed by the noises of the Facility, so Jisung knows he made the right choice. He’s the one furthest from Chan, who sits at the center of the table, but Jisung leans closer mentally, doing a thorough check and simple scan of his memories. Minho acted on impulse again, it seems. 

_ You okay?  _ transmits Jisung, to which Changbin nods.

_ Exhausted more than anything, sore, too. Sorry it took so long, are you and Chan-hyung okay?  _

Jisung shrugs in response and Changbin, who had been leaning forward to catch his expression, nods resignedly. They were doing as well as anyone could be doing - not exactly well, per se, but having expected to die earlier, Changbin was fine all things considered. 

As the others begin to blink into consciousness, shaking the sleep from their eyes, the door opens and in steps the last person in the world that Jisung had hoped to see. Her heels click on the floor as she passes, her hair is swirled into its classic, uniform bun on the back of her head. Two guards, armed, follow her on either side as she approaches Chan at the center of the table. 

“The nine of you have been a serious thorn in my side ever since you came here.” 

“We only want the best for you, Director,” sneers Minho under his breath, trying to wriggle his way out of his restraints. The Director hums before snapping her fingers once, the guard to her left leaps into action and hits Minho with the end of his gun. He reaches into his back pocket before attaching a clip onto Minho’s handcuffs, pressing hard into the young man’s wrists.

“Try anything, Lee Know, and you’ll be blown to bits with that explosive. I’m done humoring you. We’ll see if I’m feeling benevolent enough to remove it if you are on your best behavior.” 

Hyunjin keeps his gaze on his lap, avoiding the predatory eyes of the Director, but can’t help looking at the explosive. At most it would take off the arms of Lee Know -  _ Minho  _ \- but he can do little to mess with the detonator without risking a premature explosion. The quietest of his rescuers (or Minho’s allies, might be a better phrase, as he’s out of the frying pan and into the fryer) moves his hand, small and imperceptibly. Small wisps of pink flicker in and out of existence - Hyunjin knows it's useless, they’re just flies in a spiderweb.

Felix’s control is lacking, that much is certain, but his focus is commendable. 

“Yes, the nine of you have been nothing but problematic,” the Director muses to herself. “You constantly leave your cells, manipulate guards into doing your bidding, lash out meaninglessly at those just doing their jobs, avoid sessions - if I’m not careful you could throw the entire Facility into anarchy. You understand that I can’t allow that to happen.”

Her voice is spun sugar, purring at the nine boys in front of her. Hyunjin keeps his gaze down, hands trembling as she continues mocking them. Jeongin, even from the far side of the table, notices this - sees the older’s hands crackling with electricity even in spite of their bindings. Jeongin wonders, briefly, if this is intentional or not. Hyunjin’s face -  _ pretty,  _ Jeongin thinks - is striking, but crumpled as he avoids the Director’s gaze. Maybe he’s trying to keep calm to prevent any power mishaps?

“Hyunjin-ah,” croons the Director, “You know it’s rude to not pay attention when someone is talking to you.” 

“ _ Hyunjin-ah _ ?” asks Chan skeptically, glancing at the younger who shrinks into his chair. Minho shakes his head, opening his mouth as if to answer Chan. 

The Director feigns surprise, pressing her gloved hands to her face as she leans forward, tilting Hyunjin’s face up to meet her own. His eyes seem vacant, almost soulless as their gazes meet. She casts a triumphant smirk toward Minho who scowls at her before she says delicately, “I’m surprised you didn’t get the chance to introduce yourself, it’s rude to be dishonest, Hyunjin-ah. Yet I suppose you always were my greatest disappointment.”

“I’m sorry, Mother,” says Hyunjin quietly. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did anyone notice Hyunjin's relation to the Director beforehand? It wasn't meant to be a surprise for us, but more a confirmation of who the Director is more than anything as well as show her own lack of morals when it comes to how she runs the Facility.
> 
> I am so excited to get into Seungmin's backstory - he has one of the most fleshed out ones and I hope you are all as curious about his powers (and denial) as I am to write it! Felix as well might be starting to use his powers, but he still doesn't understand how or why he has this ability.
> 
> I usually try to update about once a week, but I am moving this week and it might be a while before I can finish and lightly edit the next chapter. I hope you are all doing well, thank you for taking the time to read. I hope you enjoyed it!


	4. the scope zeroes in on your neck

**[After]**

“Suppose the plan works,” says Jisung quietly, hurrying alongside Changbin,“Where will we go from there, Hyung? We can’t go home and there’ll be nothing here for us to return to...”

Changbin rams his shoulder against the door, curling his hand around the lock, wiggling it viciously. He pouts for a moment, quirking his head before trying his luck with his shoulder once more. No point in using obscene blasts of sound in an attempt to bust the lock if he can manage without it. Pausing before answering Jisung, he throws his body against the door again, muffling a groan of pain as the shockwave resonates up his arm to the sling his right arm is nestled in. Yet the door refuses to budge. Undeterred, Changbin throws a single punch with his weaker arm, letting the concussive sound swell before launching the door open. Jisung makes quick work of the two wide-eyed guards stationed at their computers, suggesting that they sleep. Changbin winces while peeling on his leather gloves - the grating hum of the technology screams in the tense silence of the two friends. 

“You know it’s different for me. I can’t go home but I don’t  _ want  _ to go home, Sungie,” says Changbin as he drags the unconscious guard across the room, propping him up in a chair. He unclicks the bolts of rope from his belt, tossing an end to Jisung who begins winding it around the guards, tying them together. “Families are complicated.”

“Ours doesn’t have to be,” starts Jisung quietly, “We - the others, too - are a family, aren’t we? 

Changbin’s hands stills as he sits back, turning toward Jisung. His eyes are dark, unreadable even considering the harsh glare of the computer monitors to their left. Changbin’s eyes are dark, glowing with determination that Jisung wasn’t sure he would see again after what happened in the arena. He turns toward the younger and smiles warmly, replying, “Of course. That’s why we are going to get Chan back.”

He grins at Jisung who matches his expression tenfold, giddy in anticipation and hope for the first time in a while. Changbin cracks his knuckles as the two get to work, pulling out the chairs to the monitors. “Also how cool was that? I have always wanted to kick down a door like an action star in a movie. Thought it would be easier, though.” 

The younger laughs to himself in response, adjusting his headset as Changbin begins the proper adjustments to the coding system for the air traffic control center. If Hyunjin managed to slip away from the group to an area where he won’t be discovered, Changbin thinks they might be able to pull this off. Sound and electric warfare - easily confusing the necessary implements for radar and sonar tracking with the added benefit of Jisung disabling the monitoring system for malfunctions. 

Disrupt the air traffic control radar beacon system, find Chan, maybe blow up the Facility on the way out if Changbin is feeling particularly vengeful - just three things. He can do that. Still, a creeping sense of dread continues seeping into his soul, a nervousness that has him twitching every few minutes, unable to focus on the task at hand. His emotional rollercoaster is almost too much to bear, swinging rapidly between terrifying hope and crippling fear. 

But, he considers with a tilt of his head, taking the risk is more gratifying than never attempting it. He’s sure that, if the positions were switched, regardless of the danger - Chan would be doing his utmost to make sure that all of their members are accounted for and safe. 

**[Before]**

There are three things that Felix knows to be true when it comes to the Facility. Which, regardless of his struggles to understand and convey himself in Korean, is not an insignificant amount considering that the status quo of the Facility seems to change on a regular basis. 

One: The Director rarely makes house calls - that is, rarely visits the inmates in person.

Her actions toward him and the other eight occupants of the room may indicate otherwise, but he is certain that her personal interests in the nine of them outweigh her usual standards as an unapproachable demoness. She had her trainee shadow - Hyunjin, before the current intern - do most of her bidding for the usual high profile inmates.

Yet here she stands in front of them once again. It is the sixth time that Felix has seen The Director in just as many days; she has the desire to oversee his own torture sessions. They screamed questions at him, perhaps for no other reason than to see him struggle, but it was clear the answers didn’t matter. Even if Felix was given ample time to consider the question and provide a decent answer, it wouldn’t matter - the Facility already knows everything that it needs to know. 

So really, because of how pointless the torture is regarding information seeking, there is no reason for the Director to be so attentive toward this group of individuals. Much less for her to be so afraid of what they are capable of, or what they might discover - fearful enough to send them immediately into the Cooler when the reveal of Hyunjin’s lineage did not go according to plan. 

Second: The Facility singles out particular mutants and disposes of the others.

Felix doesn’t really know why he was taken, why the screamed questions during the torture sessions were all things that he could not answer. Nor does he understand, given his inability to respond to the questions, why the next steps of the slap of a hand across his face, clamps in unspeakable places with electrical currents, and hours spent running himself into the ground had anything to do with what they were asking. He couldn’t do anything that they wanted him to do, could barely concentrate enough to prevent his ability from exploding in his face.

He realizes, once, that it wasn’t about the information. The minute Felix was taken into custody they had everything they needed to know about the data he was collecting for his family. No, the torture was not to figure out what he was doing, it was to limit his answers. It made his voice become theirs.

In a sense it was a violation of his own agency. 

The only answers he can provide - screams, sobs - are the ones that are pre-approved by the Facility. So, if the Facility didn’t know everything about him, why  would they bother going to such lengths? Why would he not get a chance to respond?

So the Facility knew what his family was doing. It was strange, really, considering his parent’s weren’t very renowned scientists - their research of genetic coding and its applications to mutations was niche. Their side work of attempting to nullify mutations that are a danger to the mutant and others definitely remains unpublished and under discussed - for the safety of those participating in their study. Inwardly, Felix doubts that they can interpret the extensive quantities of research that his parents spent decades dedicated to investigating, but he isn’t one to judge given the vast resources that the Facility possesses. Felix hadn’t wanted to do the study in Korea - even in spite of the higher concentration of mutations due to population density per area - but his parents insisted that their connections to Madam Hwang would pay off. 

They hadn’t. 

Clearly his parents had been blindsided to the Director’s sweet lies and false promises. Their old camaraderie from their days in university did little to protect Felix from the Director’s sights the moment she found out about the other half of his parent’s research. Rather than even nullifying mutations, Felix had a creeping suspicion the Director wants to amplify mutations for the service of the World Government. At the time of his disappearance, Felix hadn’t known he was a mutant, nor did his parents; if they betrayed him, it was uncharacteristic and unnecessary at the time. No - Felix was singled out, the initial suggestion for Felix to come to Seoul to find a constrained data pool from Madam Hwang was proof of that. 

However, Felix did not come to Seoul by himself. 

Which suggests that the Director and the Facility dispose of mutants and humans that do not serve their agendas. The disappearance of his younger sister, Olivia, who accompanied him to Seoul gives reasonable suspicion that she has been discarded by the Facility. She was taken earlier than Felix was, on a night when Felix was out late at a public library for a few more reference books - gone like smoke into thin air. She left everything behind and then some - but opening a police investigation yielded no results. After his own time in the Facility began, not even the whisper network between guards, officers, and inmates yielded any information on someone with that name in the Facility. The Director, when asked on a routine visit, gave a saccharine smile, a pat on his head and said that he never had a sister in the first place. 

A week later someone slipped the photos under his door. The body was unrecognizable, parts mangled and distorted - even now Felix can still taste the bile in the back of his throat. It doesn’t matter if it is his sister or not: the message remains more than clear. 

If the Director is so frustrated with their little group of nine - why bother keeping them? Bodies are clearly expendable in the Facility to some degree, threats and torture constantly result in death. Surely it would be easier to dispose of them, make an example of the nine of them in the Gymnasium or whatever breads and circuses she has up her sleeve to entertain the masses. From years of parents swearing by the scientific method it leads Felix to the same conclusion no matter how he looks at the issue. This group of nine was not picked at random. 

The Director knew what they could do and had interest in their abilities. Perhaps she knows more about what they are able to do better than themselves. She somehow planned for each display of power from their little group, predicting each small revolution through a thorough understanding of what their abilities entail. If Felix himself didn’t know what he can do (still doesn’t fully understand it) then this stranger shouldn’t know what he can do, which leads to his final conclusion.

Third: Somehow the Director knows what powers each mutant possesses. She knows this because she has a mutation of her own.

Felix knows this is a stretch, but historically - supported by his parent’s research - the mutated gene is carried by the female genome. Women have a higher likelihood of transmitting the mutated genome than men, even if more men seemingly present with abilities. There are some men who have transmitted the gene down to their descendants, but most are usually already mutants presenting with the gene that was dormant or undiscovered within previous matriarchs. 

Hyunjin is clearly her son - or, if he’s adopted - those are some uncanny genetic odds regarding how similar the two look. They both look like they rolled out of a fashion magazine with striking features. Not to mention, Felix thinks they both share an innate flair for the dramatic. 

So the Director could be a mutant.

But, given her treatment to her son, Felix thinks it's unlikely. Still, she and the Facility as a whole have an uncanny precision to find and isolate mutants with abilities and prevent their escape. But how? They might know that Felix is a mutant, that every occupant in the Cooler is a mutant, but how did they know how to protect the walls from Felix’s energy before he even knew that he was a mutant? How could someone know that another is hearing others thoughts or seeing visions when they said nothing about it to prevent others from thinking that they are losing their minds?

The amount of foreknowledge and preparation that the Facility has regarding each individual mutant is incredibly suspicious to Felix. Then again, maybe he’s just bitter because the perceptive Director realized what he was doing in an attempt to get the explosive off of Minho.

xxx

The room doesn’t explode into chaos immediately.

But the reveal of Hyunjin’s relation to the Director sits heavy on the features of the other occupants of the room. Eyes grow wary of the mutant in the room, knowing from each individual experience that the Director is not one to be trifled with - much less trusted. She managed to sever almost all of Hyunjin’s ties before he, himself, ever got an opportunity to prove himself. Changbin is glaring daggers at Minho who eyes him back just as thoroughly, as if in an attempt to absolve his own guilt and past allegiance to the Director. Chan sits back in his chair, fidgeting in his handcuffs as he takes in the new information before immediately drawing a conclusion - though the admission weighs on his mind. 

Minho sees the best in everyone, moving to world shattering lengths to help Hyunjin - surely he was a good person. Unless Chan himself was a poor judge of Minho’s character, but something deep in his gut states that Minho is not one to betray his trust after Chan saved him. Yet, of course, Chan knows his scars from the Facility are nothing compared to those of Jisung or Changbin, who have spent upwards of two years in this godforsaken place. Changbin loves fiercely, quietly - this much Chan can tell even in spite of the short time that they’ve known one another - if Minho is playing a dangerous game, Changbin will retaliate in full. 

Chan leans forward a little, paying no mind to the Director’s jabs and taunts. He has more pressing concerns. A closer look at the boy Minho tried to rescue, the Director’s son - Hyunjin - reveals shadows under the younger’s eyes and responds with a flinch each time the Director approaches him. Chan isn’t a doctor, he has more affinity to music than medicine, but even to his untrained eye it’s clear that the marks on the younger’s back look infected. 

If this is a doting mother, Chan is glad that his own mother is a stranger. Hyunjin’s face is sweaty, eyes unfocused - he looks two steps away from death’s doorstep. But there isn’t anything any of the nine mutants can do to help, from their chained limbs to their abilities.

Hyunjin, however, isn’t the only one who looks to be in rough shape. One of the boys Chan met today, Seungmin, is sweating and resting his head on the table. He mutters to himself, eyes screwed tightly shut, paying no attention to the situation at hand. Jeongin is next to him, occasionally touching his hand and leg in an effort to be supportive and soothing, but the older jerks away from him violently. The lights flicker and Chan swears that he almost feels an invisible draft push through the room. 

The Director walks down the length of the table, a manicured hand gliding smoothly across the tabletop. She watches them out of her peripherals, surveying each of their unspoken interactions before returning to her position in front of Hyunjin. Her thumb glides along his chin, tucking a stray strand of hair out of his eyes as the silence drags on. Hyunjin’s hands are in fists in his lap, shaking and sparking - even if only Felix and Minho are close enough to see the electricity slipping out of him. His face is flushed, forehead matted with sweat from fever, and regardless of how delusional the fever is making him, he refuses to speak another word - no matter what the lioness promises.

The Director frowns and strides over to Jisung, relishing in the way he leans back slowly, so as to avoid her hand from touching his face. She brushes his hair out from his eyes, pushing it off of his forehead to show the scars on his temples from where a few of the electrical nodes are attached during his sessions. She continues rubbing a thumb over the wounds, ignoring how Jisung hisses in pain, a few tears springing to his eyes as she touches the sensitive area, disturbing what little healing progress has been made.

Chan grits his teeth, but refuses to look at the spectacle the Director is making. Changbin’s glare has not left Minho who, in turn, matches his gaze evenly. Felix, to his credit, keeps his gaze down, leaning into the tug in his gut as he looks at the explosive on Minho’s handcuffs. Hyunjin’s hands are shaking worse now, sparking in rapid succession - like someone attempting to hotwire a car or an aggressive amount of static electricity. Seungmin, likewise, is also not doing well - Jeongin can’t stop watching the lights sway back and forth wildly, as if they were facing hurricane force winds. The empty chairs in the room are moving slightly, too, their grating noise adding white noise to the heavy atmosphere, a screeching sound covered up by the slight volume increase from Jisung. Woojin remains quiet, leaning on his hands as the Director pushes hard into the wounds with her fingernails, eliciting another whimper of pain from Jisung.

From the look of triumph in her eyes, the mounting tension and the barely controlled rage of the room’s occupants are close to reaching their limit. The Director files this information away - the team dynamic and public punishment will work wonders in the arena to continue breaking their spirits. She releases her claws from Jisung’s temples, forcefully patting down Jisung’s fringe - smoothing it down as if there was a strand out of place. The act looks far too similar to a person who has never interacted with a child in their life. 

“He is looking remarkably well, isn’t he, Hyunjin-ah?”

Hyunjin’s fists tighten on his lap and his body trembles ever so slightly. Eight pairs of eyes look between the boy and his mother, occasionally glancing at one another to see if anyone understands what is going on. Felix resumes concentrating on Minho’s handcuffs, focusing his small walls of energy in a blockade around the small device - his control was circumstantial at best. A small bead of blood runs down from his nose and his gut tugs harder as he leans into that ability. Managing to fight countless officers the other day was a fluke - earlier today he barely managed to make one wall. Still, from what little he has seen, Felix is certain there is no one who could get under the Director’s skin like Minho. The boy in question continues fidgeting with his cuffs, moving ever so slightly to not jostle the explosive as he works a pin into the locking mechanism as Felix attempts to protect him.

“You know, there’s something in common that you share, because my son is so generous. Isn’t that right, HJ200009? Such a lovely identification number, I remember it well. You and my son have always been so helpful, haven’t you?”

Jisung flinches hard, stumbling backward as much as the restraints will let him as the Director leans forward to caress his face with her hand. Her grin is predatory in nature as she leans in close again and says, just loud enough for everyone to hear. 

“You gave us so much information on other mutants during your sessions, it was really such a godsend for getting this place up and running. But really, you should say thank you to  _ Hyunjin  _ for making you so well behaved - his electricity broke you like nothing else did.” 

Hyunjin chokes, electricity arcing around him - flashing around in weblike fashion until his restraints begin glowing red, burning his wrists but heated enough to rip apart. Hyunjin stands, pushing himself over the table, doing his best to blink through the fevered haze - the floor was swirling under him, but it was of little importance. In the enclosed space, his lightning was bouncing all over the wall, striking everything in sight - leaving the other mutants to do their best to duck and dodge from their chairs. Hyunjin moves to redirect the continual random bursts of energy toward the target, throwing a bolt of lightning at the Director, effectively separating her from Jisung who flinches back, vibrating in fear. Hyunjin points at the Director with narrowed eyes - finger outstretched purposefully, almost like a gun that glows with threat of its voltage - before faltering.

The Director, from where she’s sprawled on the floor, having to dive away from the previous attack looks helplessly at her son. Her eyes, to Hyunjin, are wide and pleading. He’s never been a killer - he never wanted to hurt anyone. A glance at Jisung sees the young man visibly shaking, but otherwise unmoving, absolutely paralyzed in both fear and trauma. 

That’s all the hesitation the Director needs to subdue the young man. As Hyunjin lowers his arm, staring vacantly at Jisung, she drops her facade. Foolishly she thought her son would at least have the gall to strike her more than once, maybe even finish the job. No matter. While Hyunjin is distracted, she swipes his feet out from under him. He cries out, losing his footing, slamming his palm against the floor - the energy releasing into the linoleum rather than his intended victim. His own mother continues taking advantage of his weakened body, dragging him across the floor by a fistful of hair. The fight floods out of Hyunjin, the burst of energy gone, leaving an exhausted, sickly young man unable to defend himself from the physical assault of the Director. Her heels dig into his stomach, grinding down as she looks at the other eight occupants of the room. 

The chaos of Hyunjin’s outburst has bought Felix the time that he needs, doing his best to ignore the quiet noises of fear and outrage that bounce around the room. The diversion is more than effective - even if it wasn’t planned and nearly got Felix struck by a stray bolt of lightning. He concentrates harder, determined to not let Hyunjin’s display of rebellion against his own mother go to waste. 

Tapping into his power is strange, following an innate tug in his gut and ache in his head - he’s formed the rose-colored energy few times on command. His torture sessions have been almost like a pseudo-training at times as the officers scream at him to make a shield or sword. Yet willing a deadly weapon made of self-generated energy is easier said than done. Still even as exhaustion dots his vision, feeling the incessant strain from the fights earlier in the day, Felix continues focusing hard on creating a small structure of rose-colored energy surrounding the explosive attached to Minho’s handcuffs. The explosive is no bigger than a thumbnail, so really if he focuses he should be able to make a golf ball sized hexagonal prism, right? It’s just a few shields over and over again and if he fails then Minho dies. No pressure.

Something goes wrong. 

Felix, inwardly, is sure that he wasn’t the cause of the issue, but given how exhausted he is - his certainty is only about 75 percent. He’s exhausted, the small walls he’s constructing around Minho’s explosive continue flickering in and out of existence when the shields flare up. A wall of rose-colored energy summoned separating the inmates from the Director, slamming into existence close enough to nearly clip Hyunjin across the face as he rolls to avoid the light construct. The wall glows ever brighter, illuminating the rage on the Director’s face before the lights explode, sparks raining down on the mutants. That expense of energy isn’t sustainable. It only lasts for a brief moment, but it’s long enough for the Director’s hawk-like gaze to turn toward Felix and notice his feeble attempts to free Minho from imminent danger. 

“Well, well, well, if we all can’t have a civil conversation, maybe spending time in the Cooler to think will do you all some good, hmm?” 

xxx

Ironically, after the nine of them are thrown into the spacious Cooler to think about what they’ve done, it does give Felix the time to draw his conclusions about the Facility. Though he’s not sure the cool temperatures with paper thin uniforms are doing any favors for any of the other mutants. They all took the time to introduce themselves, but made little effort to get to know one another, staying in small pairs - everyone’s breathing quiet in anticipation for the next attack from the Facility. 

Two of the older ones, Chan and Woojin, are helping the youngest, Jeongin, nurse his bloody nose from his attempts to teleport out of the room only to be repelled back forcefully. The youngest’s white clothes look like a cheap horror movie production from how much blood he managed to get on them.

The telepath - Jisung - is curled up with his head in his hands next to Changbin who has wrapped his arm around the younger’s shoulder. Both alternate between tense silence and quiet almost meaningless conversation, bodies stiff and frozen after the shitshow of the showdown with the Director. Idle talk of music, rap lyrics, and dreams they want to achieve upon leaving this place - it’s a nice wish, but they are under no pretenses they’ll be able to leave the Facility any time soon. After a while, Changbin starts humming and, in Felix’s opinion, the tune is warm, it sounds like home. 

Minho sits near them, looking distantly at Hyunjin who sits alone with his knees drawn up to his chest. The younger refused to engage in any conversation, unblinking and unmoving; he hardly seems cognizant of the fact that Minho was there at all. Occasionally his eyes flit to Jisung, red-rimmed and watery before he places his head back into his knees. He refuses to meet Minho’s eyes. As the silence drags on, Minho reclines against the wall, closing his eyes to listen to Changbin’s humming. 

Seungmin sits alone, looking as if he’s been possessed - his eyes are wide and unseeing, occasionally muttering to himself, a few random noises escaping every now and then. No one else pays him any mind. Felix stands up slowly, ignoring the protesting snaps and groans of his joints before walking across the floor and sitting down next to Seungmin. Wordlessly, he reaches out a hand and gently clasps Seungmin’s in his own. 

It’s a bold risk, this much he knows, but if Felix’s clearest memories of the last few months of unending trauma - the loneliness is the key part. Having normalcy and loved ones ripped out of your grip is never something that one can adjust to, especially not in such a short amount of time. Furthermore, the way that Seungmin looks at his hands - features pinched in regret, almost mournful as he stares at his hands as if they’ve betrayed him. 

To Felix’s surprise, the other doesn’t yank his hand away, but instead laces their fingers together a little tighter and holds on. A pair of wet eyes meet his own as Seungmin’s cold hand holds tighter to Felix’s own in the quiet atmosphere. Listening quietly to Changbin in the quiet of the Cooler, holding on to one another - it brings a warmth into their chests. A reassurance that you aren’t alone. 

Which, until this point, was more than most had hoped for.

xxx

“I’m done waiting around,” announces Jeongin, brushing himself off of dust. “I think we should get out of here while we have a chance.” 

Minho raises an eyebrow, “Because that worked out so well for you last time? I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we can’t do much in the Cooler.” 

Woojin sighs, gesturing toward the knitted walls, with a vague wave of his hand.“It’s a neutralizing material, we could kill one another with our abilities, but do little damage to the outside, never mind getting out. It’s similar to what they’re installing in the renovations by JYP block.”

Jeongin pauses, turning toward the eldest with a slight tilt of his head, “You know about that?”

Woojin nods, placing his palms together before pulling them outward; between his hands is a thin, almost invisible type of string that shimmers in the harsh lighting of the room. In a way, the strings look innocent and unassuming, but much like spider silk they are deceptively strong. “I was...approached a year or two ago by the Director who wanted to use my power for this and... _ other _ projects...they took a lot of different types, but I don't know what they did to them.”

He pushes at the wall, only to find that there’s no give to the wall, the strings as solid and unyielding as stone. Even focusing on his power, attempting to manipulate the strings the wall is composed of - or cut them with his own - is useless. The outer concrete which the strings are attached to would prevent any reliable escape, regardless. Woojin turns again, shaking his head slightly, “I definitely can’t do this.” 

“You can always manipulate your strings, though?” asks Chan, attempting to pull on an individual thread of the knitted material. It’s like nothing he’s ever seen - lacking any areas where the stitching is looser, able to be manipulated. The strings are intricately woven, and tight enough to look solid and whole, further preventing anyone from making reliable progress on an escape. 

Woojin nods in response, “Yes, even after a while, if I made them, I should be able to use them.”

Minho frowns from his spot on the floor where he’s laying down, “Then they synthesized something similar. It’s not unreasonable - take your strings for experimentation and replication, and enhance them to make it impossible to use mutation. The success of the Cooler would make it likely that they’d use them for the project in JYP block.” 

“Which is?” probes Jeongin curiously, noting how Minho and Woojin exchange an uneasy look. Minho rubs his hands together before spreading his palms, casting an almost 3D replica of the Facility. The illusion is intricate, something that he’s done numerous times when planning different methods of targeting the Facilities operations. 

He points to the bottom portions of the Facility, aware of the others watching as he launches into his explanation, “There are three main areas of the basement area of the Facility - Quarantine in the West Wing, the old North Wing, and the Arena in the East Wing. After reconstruction about ten years ago, when the World Government took over, none of these are accessible from the other areas.”

“The North Wing isn’t in the basement,” says Changbin, walking over with his arms crossed. "I may have been blind-folded, but I know I didn't take any stairs."

Minho nods, “True, but there are still the old remnants in the basement area. It was a waiting or housing area for those to go to what was referred to as the Arena - Quarantine was the initial housing and, upon survival of a round in the arena, mutants would live in this old North Wing block. The upper floors were strictly for experimentation and analysis of particularly fascinating or useful mutations.” 

He pauses for a moment, “So the expansion to JYP block uses a synthesis of Woojin’s strings to prevent anyone from resisting the walk to the stadium, shows that they are returning to the gladiator, battling to the death system for inmates. The winner lives.” 

“Okay, so what do they do about the winner? They fight a new opponent each day? This doesn’t make any sense - no one’s heard about his,” says Changbin as Jisung nods in agreement. 

Minho shrugs, zooming in on the illusion and points at a small door near the arena. “The winner gets to keep their life and lives in the North Wing, please pay attention. If they lose, they die at the winner’s hand. Now, way back when, they would occasionally use this door to bring in special challenges, whether it’s another mutant or something special. That’s our ticket. This door connects to a ramp that leads directly to the outside world beyond the Facility.” 

Hyunjin folds his arms across his chest, almost acting as a protective barrier, “Of course they’ll let us stroll down to the arena to the door who’s exit has been blocked and barricaded for years at this point and freely let us go. They didn’t use the ramp, no one ever comes in or out of the Facility that way. How old were those blueprints?”

Jeongin pipes up, “I don’t think Minho-hyung is wrong, though, I’ve seen the construction, the blocks above the stadium - or whatever it is - are being levelled. He’s right about that, why can’t he be right about the Facility maintaining this ramp or reinstating this system?”

Jisung glances at Chan who locks eyes with him and nods once in understanding. The premonition. The explosions - it all points to the construction of something even larger, more sinister than the original arena. The others are quiet, the air ripe with tension - people they barely know, fearing for their own safety has everyone’s nerves on high alert. During this exchange, Changbin tilts his head to the side, trying to discern the entrance and exit for the ramp. Why would the Facility use a ramp, in particular?

He exhales softly, biting his lip for a moment. There isn’t a way to word this delicately. 

“It was a body chute.”

The others turn toward him, Minho falling silent from his bickering with Hyunjin. Dawning horror and realization paints the faces of his companions, but his point needs to be made. Changbin points to where Minho had indicated the door was, tracing the angle of the ramp before pressing forward. 

“The Facility doesn’t have stairs, and the central elevators are few and far between. Mutation isn’t a recent thing, so if the arena is old, I wondered what was the point of the ramp? The angle allows for a gentle incline so if someone is pushing a dead body on a gurney it won’t cause as much strain, it allows for the amount of bodies to not be seen coming out from the front door. They’ll have to reopen it or have another passage available if they are going to kill us this way.” 

Seungmin leans backward, steadying himself on the wall, before he asks, “Others had to have died since the passageway was blocked off - that’s not even considering the conditions here - so where are the bodies going now?” 

“We could kill someone and find out,” says Changbin with a small smile on his face, shaking his head as he cards a hand through his hair. His posture is borderline hysterical, eyes full of mirth, a laugh on the tip of his tongue even in spite of, or perhaps as a result of, the hopelessness of their situation. 

“That’s an option,” says Chan, “But maybe we’ll save that as a plan B. Hyunjin, you seemed certain that the Facility doesn’t use that ramp - would you know another place where they would take bodies?”

Hyunjin nods slightly, more of a twitch of his head than an actual affirmation. “The Facility was originally built to be symmetrical, so if this path is still blocked - the next area would be the loading dock in Quarantine. Where prisoners are led in and out of the Facility without the public eye seeing - it keeps perceived numbers low and Quarantine is typically the most secure part of the Facility.” 

Chan nods decisively, sounding far more confident than he feels as he replies, “Then that’s what we’ll do. We’ll scope out both areas and make our way out of here,  but we’ll also need more information - as much as we can get in order to pull this off. To buy time, I guess we’re going to need to play along to the Director’s whims.” 

xxx

Finding information over the next few weeks was easier said than done. 

Upon finding the nine still in the Cooler, the Director took it upon herself to give each one of them modified bracelets - ankle monitors? Seungmin said skeptically - that would punish them if it detected use of their abilities. 

“It’s a hoax,” said Minho, the hypocrite with an explosive on his handcuffs. “How could it possibly tell if you or Jisung are doing mental gymnastics? It can’t.” 

“We shouldn’t push our luck,” replied Chan. Taking his words as law, they did their best to refrain from tapping into their abilities. Which, fortunately, was easier than it had been previously due to their forcible relocation. The walls of the bunker serving as a makeshift dorm in the basement level just beyond the arena in the old North Wing provides a welcome escape from the clattering thoughts and sounds from the other inmates in the other areas of the Facility. Most of the time, the guards and other officials forgot they still existed - no one bothering to come all this way to check on them. 

It was a double edged sword, giving Hyunjin time to start healing and recover from his fever as well as allowing Jisung a reprieve from the quantity of voices constantly trying to gain access into his head. Yet, more than often, they were missing meals - unable to leave or find their way out of this ancient part of the building - and other small luxuries the Facility bothered to upkeep. 

Minho was certain that the bracelets were, as Seungmin said, little more than ankle monitors. In a way, Seungmin was right about it having tracking properties. Regardless, it put a damper on where the nine could explore and wander off to looking for information. The tracking software was impeccable, beeping if they traveled too close to the construction zone, beeping if they strayed too far away. 

Currently, Chan was walking down a hallway, right hand trailing against the wall that was wet from the dense humidity in the basement. The ancient part of the Facility wasn’t well lit, but that seemed to be a running trend with the maintenance of the overall building - at times like this, Chan was regretting not developing something useful, like night vision. Or heat vision. Something that might help him find his way back to the other boys; he had been walking for quite some time, but he’d turned back upon the beeping on his wrist. Still - he thinks he took a wrong turn or two. 

“Chan? Is that you?” 

In the distance, there’s a flashlight and Woojin appears, smiling bemusedly. In his left hand he holds a string that extends behind him into the infinite darkness. His hair is dark, falling gently in front of his eyes, face warm and inviting even in the flickering yellow light from the flashlight. His white uniform hangs a little loose on his frame and, in spite of himself, Chan can’t stop thinking about the string. 

An image pops into his head unbidden: A figure in white guiding another out of the maze with a glowing string. Wasn’t there a myth about that? Where Ariadne gives the hero Theseus the string in order to escape the Labyrinth. White is well known as the color of death, of mourning - a predictor of her misfortune aftering being abandoned by Theseus, killing herself in grief. Or maybe she didn’t kill herself, but she was still abandoned. Chan can’t remember which ending is correct. If Woojin is Ariadne, holding the thread to guide another out of the labyrinth - does that make Chan Thesueus? Chan blinks hard as he adjusts to the brightness of the light and the shimmering string, shaking his head to rid himself of the unimportant thoughts. It’s just an unfortunate comparison. 

“Thanks, Woojin-hyung, I don’t know how long I’ve been wandering, I’ve gotten turned around a lot,” says Chan sheepishly, with a lopsided grin. 

“No kidding, I could hear you pacing back and forth for the last ten minutes. Did you keep turning down the same path, walking back and forth?” It takes a minute for Chan to realize that Woojin’s breath is quick as he does a poor job of suppressing his laughter. He snorts once more before laughing a little more openly, echoing in the empty basement hallways. 

“It’s not funny! I swear these hallways keep changing on me, I’ve had my hand on the wall the entire time. I shouldn’t have gotten so lost.”

“Maybe it’s because you’re too used to driving on the left side of the road,” quips Woojin easily before laughing under his breath at his own joke. Chan tries to think of a witty comeback or defense of Australia, saying little more than that Felix wouldn’t treat him like this, which only makes Woojin’s grin wider. 

xxx

Seungmin finds Hyunjin with scratches on his arm, red and hurting, that are almost deep enough to draw blood. The deepest marks are concentrated around the bracelet - if Seungmin squints he thinks he can see some teeth marks from where Hyunjin has tried and failed to free himself of the monitor. The look he gives Seungmin upon getting caught red handed is a mix of betrayal and humiliation, cheeks flushing as he tucks his wrist under his leg nonchalantly. 

“What’s up?” Hyunjin asks casually, as if he weren’t moments away from attempting to saw off his own wrist only moments ago. 

Seungmin quirks an eyebrow, responding, “I was wondering if I should be asking you that. I was going to go for a walk since there’s not much else to do, I was wondering if you wanted to come. I asked Jeongin, too, but he’s in a heated debate with a rat about his missing snacks. I’m leaving to avoid being his next target of suspicion.”

Hyunjin wants to say no, wants to snap at the other and go back to trying to remove the abrasive meal band - but knows that Woojin will kill him if he doesn’t. Also Hyunjin may have accidentally grabbed Jeongin’s snacks that the younger stole by accident - only one of the four he managed to swipe on the last trip with a guard to the cafeteria - he can only imagine the look of betrayal on Jeongin’s face if he finds out Hyunjin was the thief. 

They walk down the dark sloping hallway side by side, even if it’s hardly wide enough for the two of them to fit comfortably. In the abandoned hallways, there are trip hazards everywhere - the ground is uneven, slick from standing water, and littered with random debri. A few times they’ve tried to salvage the debrief there’s some on hand, but most of it was useless junk anyway. Still Minho managed to devise a system to help try to navigate the labyrinth. By bringing a few scraps of a tattered shirt or some of Woojin’s string, they can eventually figure out what passageways are not going to set off their monitors. 

This is how Seungmin and Hyunjin find themselves as they stumble into something that they shouldn’t have. Seungmin wipes some of the sweat off his face as he continues securing the tattered fabric onto the pipe, having run out of Woojin’s string a while ago. Hyunjin has remained quiet for the better part of their ambling journey, contemplative if a little withdrawn while Seungmin felt no need to attempt to fill the silence with chatter. 

Still the muffled groans from the other are, if not concerning, then a little annoying given that Hyunjin refuses to admit that anything is wrong. The other’s hand flies to his bracelet, clutching his arm tight enough to leave bruises in the shape of his fingers around his wrist as routine as clockwork. A few beats pass before the trembling in Hyunjin’s hands is too hard to bear and his hands return to clawing at the bracelet. In Seungmin’s opinion, Hyunin’s facade is nearly perfect, projecting a kind and understanding personality even as his Facility (not to mention familial) wounds are close to the surface, but it’s clear to Seungmin that the other is slow to trust anyone. 

“Could you hold the torch, please?” asks Seungmin as he continues winding another thin strip of fabric around the pipe. Their flashlights - not to mention batteries - are few in supply so burning scrap fabric to have literal flaming torches is a simple fix, even if half of the time they’re inhaling smoke in the narrow passageways. 

Hyunjin’s hand shakes as he receives the flaming torch, trembling with every movement, the fine motor skills uncooperative with the current deep ache. The itch and hum of constrained electricity buzzes under his skin, a thousand crawling insects that bite and burn at every turn. Still, it’s the least he can do to help, so he wraps his fingers around the staff of the torch, holding it out for Seungmin to finish tying off the fabric. 

The growing pain in his wrist can’t be denied as the torch plummets from his hand, fizzling out into the puddle below. Hyunjin barely pays attention to this, face frozen in a silent scream as his muscle spasms uncontrollably, a severe pain rivalled that puts the dull, continuous pain of his torture to shame. The raw wrist against the bracelet monitor burns, flames licking up his wrist, venom being injected into the delicate nerves. He throws himself up against the wall as the monitor starts screaming again - this time, he has an audience and still hasn’t managed to free himself of the binding - a shrill beeping that echoes in the passageway. 

Still Hyunjin jerks one more time, lightning racing up his arm, swirling around his hands, focusing on the noise from the inhibitor. It continues beeping in the silence, on alternating beats, matching the fast rhythm of Seungmin’s own heart. The first displays of lightning are a welcome break from the sudden darkness they are plunged into as their only source of light falls down into a puddle as Hyunjin’s hand spasms and releases.

Being in close proximity to such untamed power is an awe inspiring and fearful experience, watching Hyunjin’s eyes crackle with electricity as he fights against the surge of his own power. Truthfully, Seungmin knows he shouldn’t be surprised by anything anymore, but to his credit he’s had a rough adjustment period. He knows that the other is not weak by any means, that Hyunjin bears the mental and physical scars of the Facility to prove that he can last a round or two through the wringer of pain, but Seungmin didn’t expect the glowing electricity from his hands. He slams his palm against the wall, the energy being absorbed into the concrete as the beeping in the monitor only grows ever louder with the output of Hyunjin’s power. 

Biting his lip, Hyunjin fights the spasm, distantly aware of his previous episodes before he was an inmate at the Facility. The electricity pulsing through his system searches, pushes, begs for an outlet, needing to take its course somewhere else and continue its life cycle. The concrete helps, but it does little to stop the burning caused by the monitor heating up - whether it's from his powers or from the technology, he isn’t sure. He’s managed to bite through his lip by the time he gets himself under control, sagging wearily against the wall, letting his legs collapse from under him into a shallow puddle. Seungmin startles forward, grabbing Hyunjin firmly under the arms while throwing an arm around his shoulder as he helps him stand upright. 

“Thanks,” breathes Hyunjin, exhaling slowly as he tries to regain his bearings, ready to press forward regardless of what he endured. The beeping is still chiming and man Hyunjin has to hand it to his mother, they must have built those monitors sturdy to withstand that much electricity. Slowly it fades into the background, much like the fading light from Hyunjin’s lightning and soon the only thing clogging their senses is the smell of battery acid and ozone.

“Are you okay?” asks Seungmin, still helping Hyunjin stand, unsure of what the proper protocol might be for someone who clearly needs the help but refuses to ask. His own wrist feels hot, as if there’s numerous needles poking him, spiders skittering up his arm - distantly Seungmin wonders if it's normal to lose feeling in different parts of one’s body. Seungmin begins to pull away as Hyunjin rights himself, no longer swaying dangerously, but the other pulls his arm closer again. 

“Can I do anything to help?”

“Stay,” murmurs Hyunjin as they begin walking down the hallway. 

“Does...that happen often?”

Hyunjin shrugs, before nodding - well, Seungmin feels more movement, so he assumes that the other nodded. They’re turned around, attempting to head back the way they came, but knowing it might be futile, even risky considering the fact that Hyunjin’s monitor went off for so long. 

“This is the second time, it happened last week too,” he says softly. “I don’t want the others to worry - Minho already thinks I’m made of glass - it’s...I can handle it. It’s fine. I’ll be fine.” 

Hyunjin's voice cracks, voice choked up, “Just, please, please don’t tell them. I’m trying to fix it, I swear, I just…”

Seungmin stops walking, holding tight onto Hyunjin’s arm as he responds, “Hey, it’s okay, I won’t tell, if you truly don’t want me to, but if you’re hurting so much, I’m sure that the others could help. Chan and Minho would want to help, certainly.” 

“That’s the issue,” says Hyunjin, “I want to help, I don’t want to be such a burden - I’m injured and everyone keeps making sacrifices to help me, I’ve been depending on Minho for so long and I...I don’t know. I don’t deserve it. I can handle this, I have to prove that I can do this. I just need more time to get the suppressing monitor off before my powers kill me.”

“Before your powers...kill...you? Um - well -” 

Hyunjin panics for a moment, thankful for the darkness so Seungmin can’t see how his face is flushing in embarrassment. He doesn’t even really know why his eyes fill with tears, hot shame curdling in his stomach as he kicks himself for speaking too much.  _ You shouldn’t have said anything, you don’t want to be a burden, he knows, he knows, he knows _

Seungmin, to his credit, squares his shoulders as he grips Hyunjin’s shoulder. Even in the darkness, Hyunjin thinks he can see the glaring intensity in the other’s eyes as Seungmin replies fiercely, devotedly, “We’re all depending on one another, Hyunjin, I don’t know Minho well, but I don’t think he’s the type of person to do something he doesn’t want to. He cares for you, he wants you to be healthy and safe. You have nothing to prove besides continuing to survive and live - and, well, knowing that you deserve this from others is just something that hopefully will come with time. I know from personal experience...even know I can’t always get over my own doubts about what I deserve or what I should do.”

A hand slides up to meet Seungmin’s, interlacing their fingers together tightly. They walk in silence, continuing further down the hallway for a while, Hyunjin tugging Seungmin along by the hand, both holding tightly to not lose the other. 

“I can’t believe you just said all of that, you just rattled it off, I’ve seen therapists do worse than that,” says Hyunjin lightly. 

Seungmin laughs under his breath before saying, “Well I’ve seen my fair share of therapists. Six years of therapy, after all.” 

“May I ask what for?”

Seungmin casts Hyunjin a slide glance, features flat and unamused as he replies, “You don’t need a reason to go to therapy, but...it started as grief counseling after my sister died. She, um, took her own life.” 

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that,” says Hyunjin, fidgeting and looking at the other with sorrowful eyes. It didn’t matter that Seungmin couldn’t see - it was the response that he always gets when he talks about it. 

“It’s okay. Well, it’s not. But there’s nothing else to really say about that, is there? Some days are easier than others, even now. So, I have wondered a lot why I continued living when she’s gone.” 

The conversation usually takes a worse turn if Seungmin mentions that he was the last one that spoke to her, that she hugged him fiercely and pulled away with a proud smile on her face. She squished his cheeks, and refused to stop until he smiled. It was prefaced by months of her arguing with their parents and concluded with an eerie silence, the departure of his father and his mom who only looked at Seungmin with sadness in her eyes. 

He doesn’t want to see the same pity in Hyunjin’s eyes. 

Seungmin smiles kindly before turning to the other, saying softly, “Don’t worry, I’m doing fine. But is there anything that you want to share?”

Hyunjin huffs, stumbling slightly in the dark, “I thought that you had let that go.” 

“Not particularly, but we don’t have to talk about it now.”

They walk in silence for a while, pushing forward ever slowly, catching one another when they slip on the slick surface or on another piece of litter. It’s hard to tell if they’re going in the right direction, arms out blindly in the hopes of finding a strip of cloth on the ceiling or one of Woojin’s strings. It’s almost easier to see now that their eyes have adapted, but easier does not necessarily mean well. 

“So you can move stuff with your mind,” says Hyunjin, bumping into Seungmin as the other stops moving suddenly. Hyunjin winces in pain as he braces himself with his wrist, nursing his aching limb while contemplating laying on the floor for a while before thinking better of it. 

“What do you mean by that?” says Seungmin haltingly, the tension in his voice matching the stiffness of his shoulders and set of his jaw. 

Hyunjin shrugged, “I mean, no shame, I make things explode - and still can barely use a cell phone without frying it - lightning, y’know? I used to walk under street lights at night and they’d just explode - I kept having to throw out my clothes because they were singed all over. I lied to my mom and said I wanted to keep up with current trends.”

“No,” interrupts Seungmin, “What do you mean by that? I don’t...I don’t have powers.”

“Sure, I’ll believe that when I see it,” snorts Hyunjin, “I may have been delirious with fever and half dead - still am, honestly, but in the interrogation room, I could tell the way that the lights were swinging wasn’t natural nor was it caused by  _ me _ . Now the explosion? Debatable - but I’ll be the first to admit I wasn’t in the best shape.” 

“What about the others? It had to be someone else, I would’ve  _ known _ ,” insists Seungmin, pulling Hyunjin back to his side as the other begins to restart the trek back to their bunker. 

The other doesn’t press the issue, merely shrugging as he replies, “Sure. Maybe. But you wouldn’t be the first person to be so deep in denial you can’t control your powers - I’m a prime example - but it’s strange you can’t tell when your powers are active.”

“I...I’m not a mutant. I’m  _ not _ ,” says Seungmin, voice shaking. “I would know.”

Hyunjin pauses, trying to convey to the other his own struggle. But finding words to explain how his own denial lasted up until the day that he was taken when he was betrayed by his own mother is easier said than done. Not to mention quantifying suddenly being experimented on, no longer having the few things in life that he made his entire existence. His previous life, carefully fabricated, had hinged on believing his own delusion. And when the lie was gone, the acrobat fell down without any safety net. 

“You just know,” says Hyunjin, “When everything else doesn’t sit right. When the lie in your mouth tastes worse than admitting the truth. When you feel your powers activated...you just know.”

“Easy for you to say - I think I’d notice if I could make lightning bolts shoot out of my hand.”

Footsteps echo in the passageway as a voice cuts through the darkness, waving their flashlight in greeting, “You know, it’s different for everyone, but imagine it like...a warmth rising in your chest. After a while it comes as easy as breathing, imagining yourself holding that kind of orb close to your chest - the more you lean into that feeling the easier it is to call it back.”

“Minho-hyung,” breathes Hyunjin, “I didn’t know you’d be back yet. We thought we would be lost  _ forever _ .” 

“Should I leave you here then?” quips the older before turning back to Seungmin. “There’s usually a physical tell - I know Chan’s head hurts, Jeongin is usually twitchier than usual, but it’s the truth. The more you voluntarily use your powers, the easier it is to call them forth. As time goes on, the physical hurt is less as you become familiar with the sensation, like exercising a muscle - the first few weeks of training are always the most brutal because you aren’t conditioned for it.”

“It’s different for you,” says Seungmin quietly.

Minho nods, waving his flashlight around, “Yes, I suppose so. But there was a time just after my abilities began developing that I wasn’t sure what was real or if reality was something that I made. I feared, for the longest time, that my life was just something that I devised. Who is Minho? Who are his parents? Maybe even my cats and their distinct personalities are things that I just invented, an illusion I deluded myself into believing. Deep introspection, looking inward is the key, Snail, not looking to others.”

His eyes flick to Hyunjin momentarily, “That goes for you, too, Hyunjinnie. Don’t think I haven’t noticed your fits. Suppression and accidental explosions aren’t the answer and it’s hurting you.”

“Then what is the answer?” snaps Hyunjin, face flushing as he crosses his arms across his chest, taking care to tuck his wrist the monitor closer to his chest, out of Minho’s sight. “You think I want to die?”

Minho’s silence was enough of an answer. 

xxx

“Maybe we’re just looking at it wrong,” says Chan, turning toward a sour-faced Hyunjin. 

Hyunjin sits to his left, stewing in anger with his arms crossed across his chest. It’s not Chan’s fault, this much he knows, but Minho dragging him by the boots to the leader and casually informing him of the issue was going a little far for his patience. After the conversation with Seungmin, Hyunjin is wrung out and being more difficult than usual. 

It’s a small comfort that Jeongin and Felix are nowhere to be found for this particular conversation, but Seungmin staying out of concern in addition to the other five semi-experienced mutants leaves Hyunjin anxious and exposed. It’s as if they’ve strapped him back into that dreadful metal harness and are slowly peeling him apart layer by layer, discussing everything in front of him. Their inclusion of him in the conversation doesn’t matter - he still feels bare.

It’s worse that Jisung is here, Hyunjin hasn’t worked up the nerve to talk to him since it was revealed that it was Hyunjin’s power that was being used torture the other in the first place. Each time he walks over to Jisung, his stomach plummets with guilt, unable to stop hearing the screams that echoed like clockwork through his chambers.

“It’s normal to lose control,” says Woojin, clasping his hands together, “But I can’t say I’ve heard of power repression to the point of death.” 

“You can’t exactly hold back lightning though - it has to take a path until it’s neutralized. If it’s electricity, well, we have that enough in our bodies - what if this interferes with Hyunjin’s brainwaves and neuron activity? It could just be an ability specific drawback,” reasons Changin.

“You really are just a ray of sunshine, aren’t you?” says Woojin.

“It’s okay because I can be cute when I want to be,” smiles Changbin widely, cupping his face as Woojin sighs. Jisung laughs brightly but makes no comment on the issue, continuing to revel in their friendly bickering. Still as it goes on, he turns back to Chan who’s staring vacantly. Not for the first time, Jisung wishes the inhibitor bracelets weren’t so effective, able to feel Chan’s consciousness brushing against his own, but unable to grasp ahold of it as he usually would. It’s made navigating social situations much more difficult given that Jisung can’t anticipate what the other will say. 

“Hyunjin,” begins Jisung, “Is your inhibitor bracelet still working?”

Hyunjin flinches visibly but shrugs, steadfastly avoiding eye contact with Jisung. He taps the monitor a few times but it makes no response. The bracelet itself is charred, hanging on by a thread - it’s like something you might see out of a cartoon, so ruined that it’s a miracle it was still tight on his wrist at all. There’s little of the actual mechanism left, nothing more than the cracked light that would indicate it was on.

“Guess not,” says Changbin, tuning back into the conversation. “Want to give it a whirl, see if it’s still doing its job?”

“Huh, I could’ve sworn it was still going off when I stopped using my powers earlier,” mutters Hyunjin. Regardless he resituates himself on the bench in the corner, well away from the others in the event of any mishap. 

If he’s being honest, Hyunjin cannot recall a time when he willingly used his powers. Even holding his phone for the first few months after they developed resulted in a fried phone that could barely be recognized as a phone, much less make a call and provide internet access. He never even got to try charging it with a small burst of electricity or hotwire a car. From the lectures that his mother preached to his own fear, willingly tapping into his power seemed counterproductive to the lie that he crafted. If his power wasn’t always lurking just below the surface of his skin, he might not even know how to access it - it’s really more of an intuition than true knowledge. 

Still - he holds his hand out, recalling what Minho said earlier about looking inside oneself, just waiting for the feeling he gets when his powers are active. His hands grow warm with slight tremors as he leans into that potential. The other occupants of the room stand with bated breath, eyes wide in anticipation - for once not burdened by a dire situation and able to appreciate the haunting blues of the electricity as it begins crackling around Hyunjin’s fingertips. Scores of brilliant blue dancing around in smaller webs continue pushing their way up the mutant’s arm, fighting their way to the ground. 

Chan pulls Seungmin back from where he’s standing a little close, glancing at Jisung as Hyunjin continues tapping into his own power potential. Jisung is tense, face drawn out and serious, with a furrow to his brow - he, almost unconsciously, takes a step backward away from Hyunjin. He makes a noise in surprise as he runs into Minho, it’s quiet, almost more of an exhale than anything but it breaks Hyunjin’s concentration shatter. He hadn’t generated the same level of raw power that Seungmin witnessed earlier, but the moment the lightning started getting away from him, Hyunjin slunk to the floor, placing his hands there in an effort to stave off any potential danger. 

The air is quiet before Chan says, “Right, well, I think we’ve determined that Hyunjin’s monitor is broken. And that he managed to break it.” 

“It’s weird because it definitely continued beeping after it was broken, though,” says Seungmin, looking at Hyunjin for confirmation. 

“Well,” says Woojin, “I use my powers pretty often and it usually chimes at me for a while, it doesn’t usually hurt unless I use my powers for too long or make - ah - intent to harm, as the officers call it. I use it in short bursts that usually go moderately undetected - Jisung’s has done the same.”

“It doesn't make sense that the monitoring system would go off when Hyunjin was close to going nuclear,” muses Minho, “The sedative should’ve kicked in not the alarm system.” 

Minho pushes forward, holding up Hyunjin’s wrist, tugging off the broken technology on the other. It breaks easily, leaving nothing but the other’s abused wrist behind. It’s hard to see due to the amount of damage Hyunjin’s wrists have taken due to various bindings, but if Minho recalls, there should’ve been... _ there _ .

“The sedative was administered,” says Minho, “See? There are six small puncture wounds where the needles entered his skin when the alert system wasn’t enough. I’m sure it’s because of the energy he was outputting that the sedative’s effects were altered, but regardless the beeping should’ve stopped at that time. They hadn’t strayed too far from the bunker when I found them and they wouldn’t have traveled too far, given that they lost their only torch so the beeping was activities by powers not perimeter. So, congrats, Hyunjin, you burned through enough sedative to calm a horse and were only mildly groggy. Wish I was that lucky when I was given some.” 

“So if the beeping wasn’t just Hyunjin’s wrist...then it must’ve been Seungmin,” concludes Chan, glancing at the younger. 

“I wasn’t doing anything,” says Seungmin earnestly, almost desperately. His hands are open almost helplessly as his, wide and pleading, dart over to Hyunjin, looking for backup. “Nothing was happening besides Hyunjin’s own powers, it must’ve been faulty from the start.” 

Changbin sighs before turning toward Seungmin, “Snail, I thought you knew when it was going off. It happened a couple times last week all with different people - even when Hyunjin wasn’t around. I heard it - I  _ felt  _ it - I saw it. It’s yours.” 

Chan placed a hand on Seungmin’s shoulder, sending Changbin a warning look as he said, “We don’t have to talk about this right now, especially if you aren’t comfortable with it, Seungmin. But you will have to talk about it eventually before it gets out of hand. Right now Hyunjin and his powers that may or may not kill him are what we are discussing. Thoughts?”

“Maybe it’s like a battery,” muses Woojin, quick to deflect the conversation away from the two other mutants. “Each time he uses his powers Hyunjin’s exhausted and it recharges over time. The suppression overcharges the battery, causing wear and tear on, well, Hyunjin.” 

“Or a muscle?” offers Jisung, “You have to build up your muscles through exercise and endurance training and we’ve noticed our powers can work the same way, so maybe the...um, energy  _ siphoning _ ...for sessions didn’t ruin his control. In my opinion it looks like Hyunjin knows what to do with his powers, but maybe the issue is the amount of energy at his disposal.” 

“Like a well that keeps filling up with water and overflowing,” says Chan, “Each time they would take more of Hyunjin’s lightning to power the Facility, the more his body thinks that the amount of energy available isn’t sufficient. So it kept building reserves to draw on - but Hyunjin never had the opportunity to train those reserves himself so it keeps exploding. What do you think, Hyunjin, you know yourself the best?”

“It...makes sense, but it doesn’t explain how I can cope with the excess electricity.”

“Use your powers?” says Chan weakly, “I don’t know if there’s much else that can be done. I believe in you, I know that control will come with time.” 

_ I don’t want to use my powers ever again _ , thinks Hyunjin quietly,  _ Each time I do I either hurt someone or almost hurt others _ . It should be an easy fix, but seeing Jisung tense and move behind Chan when Hyunjin merely activated his powers was enough to cause a cold sweat to break out on Hyunjin’s forehead. To appease the other, he smiles tightly and nods. 

xxx

Jeongin and Felix bursting into the room is a welcome discretion. They vibrate with the excitement of finding a newer inlet in the winding passageways of the basement - following a mishap neither want to disclose, they managed to find an inlet in the wall. A hollow wall like something out of a movie revealing a secret passageway covered with cobwebs and old, rotten wood and rusty metal scaffolding. 

“I wonder how they managed to find this in the first place?” asks Chan, wiping the sweat from his brow as he pushes back the old wooden paneling. The heat of nine bodies in the enclosed space is only growing as they continue nearing an opening. 

“Well,  _ hopefully  _ it’s the incinerator - and soon - my knees hurt,” complains Minho, wincing as his hand catches on a piece of wood. He thinks he has a splinter - well, he hopes the likelihood of getting tetanus is less likely with wood splinters than if he had sliced his hand on the metal. 

They aren’t on their hands and knees at this moment, but they might as well be - they’re hunched over, the ceiling low. Calling this a passageway might be generous, the clearance no more than a meter and a half at most: perhaps crawl space might be more accurate. Changbin is in the front, being coaxed along by Jisung from behind when the older freezes - the darkness and enclosed area doing little to help alleviate Changbin’s trauma induced nerves. 

“Whoever constructed this place needs to have better priorities,” says Seungmin. He’s sitting currently, helping Hyunjin rewrap his hands and wrists while taking a brief rest on the incline. The litter in the crawlspace can’t be good for the other’s wounds. “Like - who does this? Who in their right might thought that this would be necessary? The body chute I can understand, at least.” 

“Why wouldn’t you want this?” chirps Jeongin, “If you’re going to go full evil scientist you might as well add some flair. I think it’s cool. Chan-hyung, I want one for when we get out of here.”

“The optimism is appreciated, Innie, but let’s focus on one thing at a time,” replies Chan with a laugh. He’s thankful that he thought to tie some extra fabric together for a makeshift headband for how much he’s sweating - Minho is probably right, they are getting close to the heat source. 

“Hey, Chan,” says Woojin, pulling the leader by the arm. There’s nowhere private to have this conversation, not in such a small space, but letting the others get a little further ahead is better than nothing. “What happens if we’re walking into a trap? What should we do?”

“Leave it to me,” says Chan with far more confidence than he feels. “We’ll figure something out and, from how difficult this area is to get to, we’ll have some time. Still - get the younger ones out. If you have an opportunity, Woojin, take it. Don’t worry about me, I can always think of something else.” 

“We need to break our bracelets, Chan,” says Woojin, “We won’t get very far with them activated. Hyunjin can only do so much on his own.” 

To his credit, Hyunjin could do a lot of damage on his own, but it might prove useless in the end if everyone else ends up injured. Not to mention the younger’s issues with his powers aren’t magically resolved all of the sudden; there is still a deep seated wariness of his lightning that Chan isn’t sure will ever fully fade. 

“We’ll think of something, bide our time, Hyunjin doesn’t feel comfortable attempting to get other’s monitors off and I want to respect that. Felix knows taekwondo and we are all - more or less - able bodied. We can think of something, Jin-hyung, don’t worry.” 

But upon entering the room, moving past the incinerator up the small steps to a supervisory office - similar to the one that Minho worked in burning files - Chan is starting to think it’s less and less likely. Perhaps Woojin was right to worry. 

The others got there first as Woojin pulled Chan aside, talking in low voices. In the short separation, the others worked fast going off Minho’s knowledge of the organizational system. Their files are spread open on the metal table, Seungmin’s carefully placed on top. It’s far too thick for his tenancy at the Facility totaling a maximum of four weeks. 

There’s a flash drive shoved into the file that Seungmin holds in his hands, face ashy as he turns the pages of the file delicately. Hyunjin is reading over his shoulder, placing a hand over his mouth as horror begins to dawn on his face. He turns to Minho, as if looking for confirmation of what he’s just processed, who nods once - head falling forward as he puts a hand on Seungmin’s shoulder. 

Seungmin’s hands shake, the file trembling in their stead - the papers rustling like leaves in the wind. His face is covered, but the concern on other’s faces, Felix trying to use his sleeve to wipe his tears tells Chan all that he needs to know. The file slips from Seungmin’s grip - showing a second file tucked within - a girl who bears a resemblance to their comrade. The red stamp reading TERMINATED in bold font sits like a heavy stone in Chan’s stomach.

He pushes hurriedly past Felix to the back of the room where Chan and Woojin have just entered, saying, “Hyung, we shouldn’t have looked at the files. The raid - they got the wrong person - the death -  _ Seungmin  _ -”

But Hyunjin’s urgency, his desire to help is his own downfall. Neither Chan nor Woojin were able to make sense of what the younger was saying and by that time, it was too late. 

“Well,” purrs the Director, “You have all proved to be particularly troublesome. Did you all enjoy your game of hide and seek?”

**[During]**

“Hyunjin, you don’t have to do this,” says Chan, pulling the younger by the arm. He gently touches the other’s shoulder, turning him ever so slightly to see one another eye to eye. “There’s always another way, we can think of something else to help Seungmin, this isn’t you.” 

“I know,” the younger replies quietly, “It’s her.” 

Everything that Hyunjin does, everything he is, everything has stood for ultimately leads back to her. The Director. His progenitor - mother or parent seems too kindly a word, regardless of his own mixed emotions on the topic. Even the disappearance of his father, proving out what he had always suspected. And now, considering what happened to Seungmin’s family, what their files stated, it is clear that she’s caught another fly in her web. People aren’t people to her. Everyone is just prey to her own schemes, fuel for her sick desire for power.

He strides down the hallway like a character coming out of the shadows during a theatrical performance, strolling down the sloping walkways into a spotlight center stage. His eyes are dark, shaded from the light as he approaches her, nose bleeding as she sits chained to the chair. Her eyes flicker - silently goading him on - perhaps she knows that Hyunjin won’t go through with it. She’s waiting for him to make dialogue, but the only thing he wants to hear is what happened to Seungmin. She reclines languidly in the chair, the picture of sophistication and relaxation regardless of the approaching danger; if you don’t look in her eyes, her heart-shaped lips are almost kind in appearance, inviting a smile. No one had ever commented on anything except her beauty: features they share.

One step, another, the rest of the audience fades out - Hyunjin is barely even aware of Chan standing next to him, of Jeongin and Felix waiting in the wings for a hasty escape. There is no other outcome from this, there can’t be. If Hyunjin fails then his friends, no, his  _ family  _ will get hurt once more - by his own hand. By his own power. 

Never again.

As he approaches his mother, Hyunjin begins shrugging off the white coat covering his back and slides off his gloves. He wants her to see what she’s done to him, her only child; to look upon his scars and maybe, maybe, have an ounce of remorse. Hyunjin wonders if they share the same sick ambition, if he is both the unwitting product of nature and nurture, unsalvageable right down to his core. He’s always had a desire to prove himself, so really, was he all that different in the end? 

In the darkness, his hands begin crackling and sparking as he reaches for the metal staff bouncing on his right thigh. With a click of the button on the side, it grows into a weapon measuring almost 2 meters in length - a literal lightning rod, with the added bonus of helping him out in an ever-increasing amount of fights. The thing about lightning and electricity in general is that regardless of its cold beauty, it is a thing that strikes both awe and fear into humanity.

_ A fitting end _ , muses Hyunjin as he starts twirling the staff around him. Chan’s hair is starting to stick up at all angles - reluctantly he backs away from Hyunjin, patting down his hair in an effort to reduce the static electricity making him look more disheveled than usual. The stale air is starting to reek of ozone as arcs of electricity dance around Hyunjin’s hands, spiraling up the staff in countless directions. Even his eyes seem to be flickering the same blue currents of energy that emits off him in waves. 

The tension continues mounting, the atmosphere anticipating the release of violent energy upon the chained occupant of the room. The hum in Hyunjin’s veins beckons to be used, aching for an outlet of all that energy - ready to explode in a moment’s notice in a rain of fury. He tightens his grip once more on the staff, locking eyes with his mother. 

At last, he strikes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope that this was worth the wait - I am all moved into my new apartment. Side note: I do not recommend moving during a pandemic, it's pretty stressful.
> 
> If you can't tell, I really love the arc of self-acceptance that I have going for Hyunjin. This chapter I think really starts to open him up to others and reveals some of the emotional complexity of being hurt by his parental figure and his sense of guilt-responsibility toward the others for what he feels like he has caused. 
> 
> I have added another chapter, because I think what I want to accomplish might not be done by the end of the climax. However as I start my job my updates might not be as frequent. 
> 
> Thank you all for your continued support and kind words - I hope you enjoyed this chapter!


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